CORD  AND  CREESE. 


BY 


THE  AUTHOR  OF 

.    ■      '     .      .  .     '  r      _  '_  -;.•••■*  * 

"THE  DODGE  CLUB." 


/-  -•  •    •  • 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS, 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER   &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 


'i''\ 


Ps 


By  Prof.  JAMES  DE  MILLE. 


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Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 

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In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


COED  AND  CREESE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   LETTER   FROM    BEYOND   THE   SEA. 

On  the  morning  of  July  21,  1846,  the  Daily 
News  announced  the  arrival  of  the  ship  Rival 
at  Sydney,  New  South  Wales.  As  ocean  steam 
navigation  had  not  yet  extended  so  far,  the  ad- 
vent of  this  ship  with  the  EngUsh  mail  created 
the  usual  excitement.  An  eager  crowd  beset 
the  post  -  office,  waiting  for  the  delivery  of  the 
mail ;  and  Uttle  knots  at  the  street  comers  were 
busily  discussing  the  latest  hints  at  news  which 
hac'  btci  gathered  from  papers  brought  ashore 
by  the  oflScers  or  passengers. 

At  the  lower  end  of  King  Street  was  a  large 
warehouse,  with  an  oflSce  at  the  upper  extremi- 
ty, over  which  was  a  new  sign,  which  showed 
with  newly-gilded  letters  the  words : 

COMPTON  &*  BRANDON. 

The  general  appearance  of  the  warehouse 
showed  that  Messrs.  Compton  and  Brandon 
were  probably  commission  merchants,  general 
agents,  or  something  of  that  sort. 

On  the  morning  mentioned  two  men  were  in 
the  inner  office  of  this  warehouse.  One  was  an 
elderly  gentleman,  with  a  kind,  benevolent  as- 
pect, the  senior  partner  of  the  firm.  The  other 
was  the  junior  partner,  and  in  every  respect  pre- 
sented a  marked  contrast  to  his  companion. 

He  had  a  face  of  rather  unusual  appearance, 
and  an  air  which  in  England  is  usually  consid- 
ered foreign.  His  features  were  regular — a 
straight  nose,  wide  brow,  thin  Ups,  and  square, 
massive  chin.  His  complexion  was  olive,  and 
his  eyes  were  of  a  dark  hazel  color,  with  a  pe- 
culiarity about  them  which  is  not  usually  seen 
in  the  eye  of  the  Teutonic  or  Celtic  race,  but  is 
sometimes  found  among  the  people  of  the  south 
of  Europe,  or  in  the  East.  It  is  difficult  to  find 
a  name  for  this  peculiarity.  It  may  be  seen 
sometimes  in  the  gipsy ;  sometimes  in  the  more 
successful  among  those  who  call  themselves 
"spiritual  mediums,"  or  among  the  more  pow- 
erfid  mesmerizers.  Such  an  eye  belonged  to 
Xapoleon  Bonaparte,  whose  glance  at  times 
could  make  the  boldest  and  greatest  among  his 
marshals  quail.  What  is  it  ?  Magnetism  ?  Or 
the  revelation  of  the  soul  ?    Or  what  ? 

In  this  man  there  were  other  things  which 
gave  him  the  look  of  the  great  Napoleon.  The 
contour  of  feature  was  the  same ;  and  on  his 
brow,  broad  and  massive,  there  might  be  seen 
those  grand  shadows  with  which  French  artists 
love  to  glorify  the  Emperor.  Yet  in  addition  to 
this  he  had  that  same  serene  immobility  of  coun- 
tenance which  characterized  the  other,  which 

4i 


could  ser\'e  as  an  impenetrable  mask  to  hide 
even  the  intensest  passion. 

There  was  also  about  this  man  a  certain  aris- 
tocratic air  and  grace  of  attitude,  or  of  manner, 
which  seemed  to  show  lofty  birth  and  gentle 
breeding,  the  mysterious  index  to  good  blood  or 
high  training.  How  such  a  man  could  have 
happened  to  fill  the  position  of  junior  partner  in 
a  commission  business  was  certainly  a  problem 
not  easily  solved.  There  he  was,  however,  a 
man  in  api^earance  out  of  place,  yet  in  reality 
able  to  fill  that  place  with  success ;  a  man,  in 
fact,  whose  resolute  will  enabled  him  to  enforce 
success  in  any  calling  of  life  to  which  either  out- 
side circumstances  or  his  own  personal  desires 
might  invite  him. 

"The  mail  ought  to  be  open  by  this  time,"  said 
Brandon,  indifferently,  looking  at  his  watch.  "  I 
am  somewiiat  curious  to  see  how  things  are  look- 
ing. 1  noticed  quotations  of  wool  rather  higher 
than  by  last  maiL  If  the  papers  are  correct  whicli 
I  saw  then  we  ought  to  do  very  well  by  that  last 
cargo. " 

Mr.  Compton  smiled. 

"  Well,  Brandon,"  said  he,  "  if  it  is  to  it  will 
show  that  you  are  right.  You  anticipated  a  rise 
about  this  time,  you  know.  You  certainly  have 
a  remarkable  forecast  about  the  chances  of  busi- 
ness." 

"I  don't  think  there  is  much  forecast,"  said 
Brandon,  with  a  smile,  "it  was  only  the  most 
ordinary  calculation  made  from  the  well-known 
fact  that  the  exportation  this  ye^r  had  been 
slight.  But  there  comes  Hedley  now,"  he  con- 
tinued, moving  his  head  a  little  to  one  side  so  as 
to  look  up  the  street.  "The  letters  'stU  soon 
show  us  all. " 

Mr.  Compton  looked  out  in  the  direction  which 
Brandon  indicated  and  saw  the  clerk  approach- 
ing. He  then  settled  himself  back  in  his  chair, 
put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  threw  one  leg  over 
the  other,  and  began  whistling  a  tune  with  the 
air  of  a  man  \vho  was  so  entirely  prosperous  and 
contented  that  no  news  whether  good  or  evil 
could  greatly  affect  his  fortunes. 

In  a  short  time  the  clerk  entered  the  inner 
office,  and,  laying  the  letters  down  upon  the  table 
nearest  Mr.  Compton,  he  withdrew. 

Mr.  Compton  took  up  the  letters  one  by  one 
and  read  the  addresses,  while  Brandon  looked 
carelessly  on.  There  were  ten  or  twelve  of  them, 
all  of  which,  except  one,  were  addressed  to  the 
firm.  This  one  Mr.  Compton  selected  from 
among  the  others,  and  reaching  it  out  in  his 
band  said : 

"This  is  for  you,  Mr.  Brandon." 

"For  me?"  repeated  Brandon,  with  marked 


i-\ 


81? 


10 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


surprise ;  and  taking  the  letter  he  looked  at  the 
address  v.ith  eager  curiosity. 

The  address  wa.s  simply  as  follows : 

^Sm**^  SotanUon, 

Q^ye/ney,   cM.*o    ^btU/l  ^^a/ea. 

The  letters  were  irregular  and  loosely  formed, 
as  though  written  bj  i  tremulous  hand— such 
letters  as  old  men  form  when  the  muscles  have 
become  relaxed. 

Mr.  Compton  went  on  opening  the  letters  of 
the  firm  without  taking  any  further  notice  of  his 
partner.  The  latter  sat  for  some  time  looking  at 
the  letter  without  venturing  to  open  it.  He  held 
it  in  both  hands,  and  looked  fixedly  at  that  ad- 
dress as  though  from  the  address  itself  he  was 
trj-iug  to  extort  some  meaning. 

He  held  it  thus  in  both  hands  looking  fixedly 
at  it,  with  his  head  bent  fonvard.  Had  Mr. 
Compton  thought  of  taking  a  look  at  his  usually 
»  npassive  companion,  he  w  uld  have  been  sur- 
prised at  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in 
him  at  the  mere  sight  of  that  tremulous  hand- 
writing. For  in  that  he  had  read  grief,  misfor- 
tune, perhaps  death ;  and  as  he  sat  there,  paus- 
ing before  he  dared  to  break  the  seal,  the  con- 
tents of  the  letter  had  already  been  conjec- 
tured. 

Gloom  therefore  unutterable  gathered  upon 
his  face ;  his  features  fixed  themselves  into  such 
rigidity  of  grief  that  they  became  more  express- 
ive than  if  they  had  been  distorted  by  passionate 
emotions ;  and  over  his  brow  collected  cloud  upon 
cloud,  which  deepened  and  darkened  every  in- 
stant till  they  overshadowed  all;  and  his  face 
in  its  statuesque  fixedness  resembled  nothing  so 
much  as  that  which  the  artist  gives  to  Napoleon 
at  the  crisis  hour  of  Waterloo,  'vhen  the  Guard 
has  recoiled  from  its  last  chai'fe  ,  and  from  that 
Imperial  face  in  its  fixed  agony  the  soul  itself 
seems  to  cry,  "  Lost !"  "  Lost !" 

Yet  it  was  only  for  a  few  minutes.  Hastily 
subduing  his  feeling  Brandon  rose,  and  clutch- 
ing the  letter  in  his  hand  as  though  it  were  too 
precious  to  be  trusted  to  his  pocket,  he  quietly 
left  the  oflSce  and  the  warehouse  and  walked  up 
the  fetreet. 

He  walked  on  rapidly  until  he  reached  a  large 
bi'ilding  which  bore  the  sign  ' '  Australian  Hotel. " 
Here  he  entered,  and  walked  up  stairs  to  a  room, 
and  locked  himself  in.  Then  when  alone  in  his 
c  ix\  apartments  he  ventured  to  open  the  letter. 

The  paper  was  poor  and  mean ;  the  handwTit- 
ing,  like  that  of  the  address,  w^s  tremulous,  and 
in  many  places  quite  illegible ;  the  ink  was  pale ; 
and  the  whole  appearance  of  the  letter  seemed  to 
indicate  poverty  and  weakness  on  the  part  of  the 
writer.  By  a  veiy  natural  impulse  Brandon 
hesitated  before  beginning  to  read,  and  took  in 
all  these  things  with  a  quick  glance. 

At  last  he  nened  himself  to  the  task  and  be- 
gan to  read. 

This  was  the  letter. 

"Bbasbon,  March  10, 1946. 

"Mr  DEAR  BoT, — These  are  the  last  words 
which  you  will  ever  hear  from  your  father.  I  am 
dying,  my  dear  boy,  and  dying  of  a  broken  heart ; 
but  where  I  am  dying  I  am  afraid  to  tell  you. 
That  bitterness  I  leave  for  yon  to  find  out  some 
day  for  yourself.    In  poverty  unspeakable,  in  an- 


guish that  I  pray  yon  may  never- know,  I  turn  to 
you  after  a  silence  of  years,  and  my  first  word  is 
to  implore  your  forgiveness.  I  know  my  noble 
boy  that  you  grant  it,  and  it  is  enough  fur  me  to 
ask  it.  After  asking  this  I  can  die  content  on 
that  score. 

"  Lying  as  I  do  now  at  the  point  of  death,  I 
find  myself  a^  last  freed  from  the  follies  and 
prejudices  which  have  been  my  ruin.  The  clouds 
roll  away  from  my  mind,  and  I  perceive  what  a 
mad  fool  I  have  been  for  years.  Most  of  all  I 
see  the  madness  that  instigated  me  to  turn  against 
you,  and  to  put  against  the  loyal  love  of  the  best 
of  sons  my  own  miserable  pride  and  the  accusa- 
tion of  a  lying  scoundrel.  May  God  have  mercy 
upon  me  for  this ! 

"I  have  not  much  strength,  dear  boy ;  I  have 
to  write  at  inter\als,  and  by  stealth,  so  as  net  to 
be  discovered,  for  I  am  closely  watched.  lie 
must  never  know  that  I  have  sent  this  to  you. 
Frink  and  your  mother  are  both  sick,  and  my 
only  help  is  your  sister,  my  sweet  Edith,  she 
watches  me,  and  enables  me  to  write  this  in 
safety. 

"I  must  tell  you  all  without  resene  before 
strength  leaves  me  foj-cver. 

"That  man  Potts,  whom  you  so  justly  hated, 
was  and  is  the  cause  of  all  my  suffering  and  of 
yours.  You  used  to  wonder  how  such  a  man  as 
that,  a  low,  vulgar  knave,  could  gain  such  an  in- 
fluence over  me  and  sway  me  as  he  did.  I  will 
try  to  explain. 

"Perhaps  you  remember  something  about  the 
lamentable  death  of  my  old  friend  Colonel  Des- 
pard.  The  first  that  I  ever  heard  of  this  man 
Potts  was  in  his  connection  with  Despard,  for 
whom  he  acted  partly  as  valet,  and  partly  as 
business  agent.  Just  before  Despard  left  to  go 
on  his  fatal  voyage  he  wrote  to  ma  about  his 
affairs,  and  stated,  in  conclusion,  that  this  man 
Potts  was  going  to  England,  that  he  was  sorry 
to  lose  him,  but  recommended  him  very  earnest- 
ly to  me. 

"You  recollect  that  Colonel  Despard  was 
murdered  on  this  voj'age  under  very  mysterious 
circumstances  on  shipboard.  His  Malay  sonant 
Uracao  was  convicted  and  executed.  Potts  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  his  zeal  in  avenging  Iiis 
master's  death. 

"About  a  year  after  this  Potts  himself  came 
to  England  and  visited  me.  He  was,  as  you 
know,  a  rough,  vulgar  man ;  but  his  connection 
with  my  murdered  friend,  and  the  warm  recom- 
mendations of  that  friend,  made  me  receive  him 
with  the  greatest  kindness.  Besides,  he  had 
many  things  to  tell  me  about  my  poor  friend,  and 
brought  the  newspapers  both  from  Manilla  and 
Calcutta  which  contained  accounts  of  the  trial. 

"  It  was  this  man  s  desire  to  settle  himself 
somewhere,  and  I  gave  him  letters  to  differe:  t 
people.  He  then  went  off,  and  I  did  not  see 
him  for  two  years.  At  the  end  of  that  time  he 
returned  with  glowing  accounts  of  a  tin  mine 
which  he  was  working  in  Cornwall.  He  had 
bought  it  at  a  low  price,  and  the  returns  from 
working  it  had  exceeded  his  most  sanguine  ex- 
pectations. He  had  just  organized  a  company, 
and  was  selling  the  stock.  He  came  first  to  me 
to  let  me  take  what  I  wished.  I  carelessly  took 
five  thousand  pounds'  worth. 

"  On  the  following  year  the  dividend  was  enor- 
mous, being  nearly  sixty  per  cent.     Potts  ex- 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


11 


EDITH   SHE    WATCHES   ME,  AND   ENABLES    ME   TO   WRITE   THIS   IN   8AFETV. 


pLuned  to  me  the  cause,  declaring  that  it  was 
the  richest  mine  in  the  kingdom,  and  assuring 
me  that  my  £5000  was  worth  ten  times  that  sum. 
His  glowing  accounts  of  the  mine  interested  me 
greatly.  Another  year  the  dividend  was  higher, 
and  he  assured  me  that  he  expected  to  pay  cent, 
per  cent. 

"  It  was  then  that  the  demon  of  avarice  took 
full  possession  of  me.  Visions  of  millions  came 
to  me,  and  I  determined  to  become  the  richest 
man  in  the  kingdom.  After  this  I  turned  every 
thing  I  had  into  money  to  invest  in  the  mine.  I 
raised  enormous  sums  on  my  landed  estate,  and 
put  all  that  I  was  worth,  and  more  too,  into  the 
speculation.  I  was  fiiscinated,  not  by  this  man, 
but  by  the  wealth  that  he  seemed  to  represent. 
I  believed  in  him  .to  the  utmost.  In  vain  my 
friends  warned  me.  I  turned  from  them,  and 
quarreled  with  most  of  them.  In  my  madness  I 
refused  to  listen  to  the  entreaties  of  my  poor 
wife,  and  turned' even  against  you.  I  can  not 
bear  to  allude  to  those  mournful  days  when  you 
denounced  that  villain  to  his  face  before  me ; 
when  I  ordered  you  to  beg  his  pardon  or  leave 
I'ly  roof  forever;  when  you  chose  the  latter  al- 
ternative and  became  an  outcast.      My  noble 


boy — my  true-hearted  son,  that  last  look  of  yours, 
wiih  all  its  reproach,  is  haunting  my  dying  hours. 
If  you  were  oii'iy  near  me  now  how  peacefully  I 
could  die ! 

"  Jly  strength  is  failing.  I  can  not  describe 
the  details  of  my  ruin.  Enough  that  the  mine 
broke  down  utterly,  and  I  as  chief  stockholder 
was  responsible  for  all.  I  had  to  sell  out  every 
thing.  The  stock  was  worthless.  The  Hall  and 
the  estates  all  went.  I  had  no  friend  to  helj) 
me,  for  by  my  madness  I  had  alienated  them 
all.  All  this  came  upon  me  during  the  last 
year. 

"But  mark  this,  my  son.  This  man  Potts 
was  not  ruined.  He  seemed  to  have  grown  pos- 
sessed of  a  colossal  fortune.  When  1  reproached 
him  with  being  the  author  of  my  calamity,  and 
insisted  that  he  ought  to  share  it  with  me,  the 
scoundrel  laughed  in  my  face. 

"The  Hall  and  the  estates  were  sold,  for,  nn- 
fortunately,  though  they  have  been  in  our  fam- 
ily for  ages,  they  were  not  entailed.  A  feeling 
of  honor  was  the  cause  of  this  neglect.  They 
were  sold,  and  the  purchaser  was  this  man  Potts. 
He  must  have  bought  them  with  the  money  that 
he  had  plundered  from  me. 


Ifl 


CORD  AND  CREESR 


"Now,  BUice  my  eyes  have  been  opened,  I 
have  had  ii:any  thoughts;  and  among  all  that 
occurs  to  me  none  is  more  prominent  than  the 
iityBterious  murder  of  my  friend.  Thin  man 
Potts  was  with  him  at  the  time,  lie  was  chief 
witness  bgainst  the  Malay.  The  counsel  for  the 
defense  bore  down  hard  on  him,  but  he  man- 
aged to  escape,  and  Uracao  was  executed.  Yot 
this  much  is  evident,  thai  Potts  was  largely  ben- 
efited t)y  the  death  of  Despard.  He  could  not 
have  made  all  his  money  by  his  own  savings.  I 
believe  that  the  man  who  wronged  me  so  foully 
was  fully  capable  of  murder.  Ho  strong  is  this 
conviction  now  that  I  sometimes  have  a  super- 
stitious feeling  that  because  I  neglected  all  in- 
quiry into  the  death  of  my  friend,  therefore  he 
has  visited  me  from  that  other  life,  and  punished 
me,  by  making  the  same  man  the  ruin  of  us 
both. 

"The  mine,  I  now  believe,  was  a  colossal 
sham-  and  all  the  money  that  I  invested  in 
stocks  went  directly  to  Potts.  Good  God  I  what 
madness  was  mine ! 

"O  my  boyl  Your  mother  and  your  brother 
are  lying  here  sick  ;  your  sister  attends  on  us  al!, 
though  little  more  than  a  child.  Soon  I  must 
leave  them ;  and  for  those  who  are  destined  to 
live  there  is  a  f'Uure  which  I  shudder  to  contem- 
plate. Come  home  at  once.  Come  home,  what- 
ever you  are  doing.  Leave  all  business,  and  all 
prospects,  and  come  and  save  them.  That  much 
you  can  do.  Come,  if  it  is  only  to  take  them 
back  with  you  to  that  new  land  where  you  live, 
where  they  may  forget  their  anguish. 

"Come  home,  my  son,  and  take  vengeance. 
Tbis,  perhaps,  you  can  not  do,  but  you  at  least 
can  try.  By  the  time  that  you  ret  d  these  words 
they  will  be  my  voice  from  the  grt.ve ;  and  thus 
I  invoke  you,  and  call  you  tC'  take  venge- 
ance. 

"But  at  least  come  and  save  your  mother, 
your  brother,  and  your  sister.  The  danger  is 
imminent.  Not  a  friend  's  left.  They  all  hold 
aloof,  indignant  at  me.  This  miscreant  has  his 
own  plans  with  regard  to  them,  I  doubt  not ;  and 
he  w^ill  disperse  them  or  send  them  off  to  starve 
in  some  foreign  land.     Come  and  save  them. 

"  But  1  warn  you  to  be  careful  about  yourself 
for  their  sakes.  For  this  villain  is  powerful  now. 
and  hates  you  worse  than  any  body.  His  arm 
may  reach  even  to  the  antipodes  to  strike  you 
there.  Be  on  your  guard.  Watch  every  one. 
For  once,  from  words  which  fell  from  him  hasti- 


ly, I  gathered  that  he  bad  some  dark  plan  againit 
you.  Trust  no  one.  Rely  on  yourself,  and  miy 
God  help  you ! 

"Poor  boy!  I  have  no  estate  to  leave  yon 
now,  and  what  I  do  send  to  you  may  seem  to  you 
like  a  mockery.  Yet  do  not  despise  it.  Who 
knows  what  may  be  possible  in  these  days  of 
science?  Why  may  it  not  be  possible  to  force 
the  sea  to  give  up  its  prey? 

"I  send  it,  at  any  rate,  for  I  have  notliing 
else  to  send.  You  know  that  it  has  been  in  our 
family  for  centuries,  and  have  heard  how  fitout 
old  Peter  Leggit,  with  nine  sailors,  escaped  by 
night  through  the  Spanish  flee*^  and  what  suffer- 
ing they  endured  before  they  reached  England. 
He  brought  this,  and  it  has  been  preserved  ever 
since.  A  legend  has  groi^'n  up,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  that  the  treasure  will  be  recovered  one 
day  when  the  family  is  at  its  last  extremity.  It 
may  not  be  impossible.  The  writer  intended 
that  something  should  come  of  it. 

"If  in  that  other  world  to  which  I  am  going 
the  disembodied  spirit  can  assist  man,  then  be 
sure,  O  my  son,  I  will  assist  you,  and  in  the 
crisis  of  your  fate  I  will  be  near,  if  it  is  only  to 
communicate  to  your  spirit  what  you  ought  to  do. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear  boy,  and  farewell. 
"Your  affectionate  father, 

"Ralph  Bkandon." 

This  letter  was  evidently  written  by  fragment- 
ary portions,  as  though  it  had  been  done  at  in- 
tenals.  Some  parts  weie  written  lei.?urely — 
others  apparently  in  haste.  The  first  half  had 
been  written  evidently  with  the  greates*  ease 
The  writing  of  the  last  half  showed  weakness  «• 
tremulousness  of  hand ;  many  words  would  havt 
been  quite  illegible  to  one  not  familiar  with  the 
handwriting  of  the  old  man.  Sometimes  the 
word  was  written  two  or  three  times,  and  there 
were  numerous  blots  and  unmeaning  lines.  It 
grew  more  and  more  illegible  toward  the  close. 
Evidently  it  was  the  work  of  one  who  was  but  ill 
able  to  exert  even  suflBcient  strength  to  hold  a 
pen  in  his  trembling  hand. 

In  this  letter  there  was  folded  a  large  piece  of 
coarse  paper,  evidently  a  blank  leaf  torn  from  a 
book,  brown  with  age,  which  was  worn  at  the 
folds,  and  protected  there  by  pieces  of  cotton 
which  had  been  pasted  upon  it.  The  paper  was 
covered  with  writing,  in  ink  that  was  much  faded, 
though  still  quite  legible. 

Opening  this  Brandon  read  the  following : 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


It 


iP^. 


* ,- -  ^  i**^-^-^k 


< 


^ 


^^^%^^a^   ( 


m.  el 


to   ^Z/Vv 


^ffod'   (VV^  a/i3  en<tt^^ 


u 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A     LIFK    TRAOKDT. 

Not  a  word  or  a  gesture  escaped  Brandon 
during  the  |)eru8al,  but  aftei;  he  had  flnished 
he  read  the  whole  through  twice,  *hen  laying  it 
down,  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room.  Ilis 
olive  skin  had  become  of  a  sickly  tawny  hue, 
his  eyes  glowed  with  intense  lustre,  and  his 
brow  was  covered  with  those  gloomy  Napoleonic 
rioudd,  but  not  a  nerve  was  shaken  by  the  shock 
of  this  dread  intelligence. 

Evening  came  and  night ;  and  the  night  passed, 
and  morning  came,  but  it  found  him  still  there 
pacing  the  room. 

Earlier  than  usual  next  morning  he  was  at  the 
office,  and  waited  for  some  time  before  the  senior 
partner  made  his  appearance.  When  he  came 
in  it  was  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  a  general 
air  of  congratulation  to  all  the  world. 

"Well,  Brandon,"  said  he,  cordially,  "that 
last  shipment  has  turned  out  finely.  More  than 
a  thousand  pounds.  And  it  s  all  your  doing.  I 
objected,  but  you  were  right.  Let  me  congratu- 
Lite  yon." 

Something  in  Brandon's  face  seemed  to  sur- 
prise the  Oil*  gentleman,  and  he  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment. "  W.iy  what's  the  matter,  my  boy?"  he 
said,  in  a  paternal  voice.  "  You  have  not  heard 
any  bad  news,  I  hope,  in  that  letter — I  hope  ifs 
nothing  serious  ?"' 

Brandon  gave  a  faint  smile. 

"  Serious  enough, "said  he,  looking  away  with 
an  abstracted  gaze,  "  to  put  a  sudden  end  to  my 
Australian  career." 

"Oh  no — oh  no!"  said  the  other,  earnestly; 
"not  so  bad  as  that." 

"  I  must  go  home  at  once." 

"Oh  well,  that  may  be,  but  yon  will  be  back 
again.  Take  a  leave  of  absence  for  five  years  if 
you  w^ish,  but  don't  quit  for  good.  I'll  do  the 
business  and  won't  complain,  my  boy.  I'll  keep 
your  place  comfortable  for  you  till  your  return." 

Brandon's  stern  face  softened  as  he  looked  at 
the  o'd  man,  whose  features  were  filled  with  the 
kindest  expression,  and  whose  tone  showed  the 
affectionate  interest  which  he  felt. 

"  Your  kindness  to  me,  Mr.  Compton,"  said 
he,  very  slowly,  and  with  deep  feeling,  "has 
been  beyo"d  all  words.  P2ver  since  I  first  came 
to  this  country  you  have  been  \he  truest  and  the 
best  of  friends.  I  hope  you  know  me  well  enough 
to  believe  that  I  can  never  forget  it  But  now 
all  this  is  at  an  end,  and  all  the  bright  prospects 
that  I  had  here  must  give  way  to  the  call  of  the 
sternest  duty.  In  that  letter  which  I  received 
last  night  there  came  a  summons  home  which  I 
can  not  neglect,  and  my  whole  liff.  hereafter 
must  be  directed  toward  the  fulfillment  of  that 
summons.  From  mid-day  yesterday  until  dawn 
this  morning  I  paced  my  room  incessantly,  lay- 
ing out  my  plans  for  the  future  thus  suddenly 
thrust  upon  me,  and  though  I  have  not  been 
able  to  decide  upon  any  thing  definite,  yet  I  see 
plainly  that  nothing  less  than  a  life  will  enable 
me  to  accomplish  my  duty.  The  first  thing  for 
me  to  do  is  to  acquaint  you  with  this  and  to  give 
up  my  part  in  the  business:" 

Mr.  Compton  placed  his  elbow  on  the  table 
near  which  he  had  seated  himself,  leaned  his  head 
upon  his  hand,  and  looked  at  the  floor.  From 
Brandon's  tone  he  perceived  that  this  resolution 


was  irrevocable.  The  deep  dejection  which  h« 
felt  could  not  be  concealed.  Ho  woa  silent  for  a 
long  time. 

"God  knows," said  he,  at  last,  "  that  I  would 
rather  have  faileid  in  business  than  that  this  should 
have  happened." 

Brandon  looked  away  and  said  nothing. 

"It  comes  upon  me  so  suddenly,"  he  contin- 
ued. "  I  do  not  know  what  to  think.  And 
how  can  I  manage  these  vast  affairs  without  your 
assistance  ?  For  you  were  the  one  who  did  our 
business.  I  know  that  well.  I  had  no  head  for 
it" 

"You  can  reduce  it  to  smaller  proportions," 
said  Brandon ;   "  that  can  easily  be  done." 

The  old  man  sighed. 

"  After  all,"  he  continued,  "  it  is  not  the  busi- 
ness. Its  losing  you  that  I  think  of,  dear  boy. 
I'm  not  thinking  of  the  business  at  all.  My 
grief  is  altogether  about  your  departure.  I 
grieve,  too,  at  the  blow  which  must  have  fallen 
on  you  to  make  this  necessary. " 

"The  blow  is  a  heavy  one,"  said  Brandon; 
"so  heavy  that  every  thing  else  in  life  must  be 
forgotten  except  the  one  thought — how  to  re- 
cover from  it ;  and  perhap.:,  also,"  he  added,  in 
a  lower  voice,  "  how  to  return  it." 

Mr.  Compton  was  silent  for  a  long  tir.ie,  and 
with  every  minute  the  deep  dejection  of  hb  face 
and  manner  increased.  He  folded  his  arms  and 
shut  his  eyes  in  deep  thought. 

"My  boy,"  said  he  at  last,  in  that  same  pa- 
ternal tone  which  he  had  used  before,  and  in  a 
mild,  calm  voice,  "I  suppose  this  thing  can  not 
be  helped,  and  all  that  is  left  for  me  to  do  is  to 
bear  it  as  best  I  may.  I  will  not  indulge  in  any 
selfish  sorrow  in  the  presence  of  your  greater 
trouble.  I  will  rather  do  all  in  my  power  to 
coincide  with  your  wishes.  J  see  now  that  you 
must  have  a  good  reason  for  your  decision,  al- 
though I  do  not  seek  to  look  into  that  rea- 
son." 

"Believe  me," said  Brandon,  "I  would  show 
you  the  letter  at  once,  but  it  is  so  terrible  that  I 
would  rather  that  you  should  not  know.  It  is 
worse  than  death,  and  I  do  not  even  yet  begin 
to  know  the  worst." 

The  old  man  sighed,  and  looked  at  him  with 
deep  commiseration. 

"If  our  separation  must  indeed  be  final," said 
he,  at  last,  "I  will  take  care  that  you  shall  suf- 
fer no  los?.  You  shall  have  your  full  share  of 
the  capital." 

"I  leave  t^at  entirely  to  you,"  said  Brandon. 

"  Fortunately  our  business  is  not  much  scat- 
tered. A  settlement  can  easily  be  made,  and  I 
will  arrange  it  so  that  you  shall  not.have  any 
loss.  Our  balance-sheet  was  made  out  only  last 
month,  and  it  showed  our  firm  to  be  worth  thirty 
thousand  pounds.     Half  of  this  is  yours,  and — " 

"Half!"  interrupted  the  other.  "My  dear 
friend,  you  mean  a  quarter. " 

The  old  man  waved  his  hand. 

"  I  said  half,  and  I  mean  half." 

"  I  will  never  consent." 

"You  must"  '  ^     ■ 

"Never." 

"You  shall  Why,  think  of  the  petty  hxm- 
ness  that  I  was  doing  when  yon  came  here.  I 
was  worth  about  four  thousand.  You  have  built 
up  the  business  to  its  present  dimensions.  Do 
you  suppose  that  I  don't  know  ?" 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


15 


"  I  can  not  allow  joa  to  nuika  such  a  sacri- 
fice," said  Brandon. 

"Stop,"  said  Mr.  Compton.  "I  have  not 
■aid  all.  I  attach  a  condition  to  this  which  I 
implore  jou  not  to  refuse.  Listen  to  me,  and 
you  will  then  be  able  to  see. " 

Mr.  Compton  n)ae  and  looked  carefully  out 
into  the  office.  There  was  no  one  near.  He 
then  returned,  locked  the  door,  aid  drawing  hii 
chair  close  to  Brandon,  began,  in  a  low  voice : 

"  You  have  your  secrets  and  I  have  mine.  I 
don't  wish  to  know  yours,  but  my  own  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  to  you,  not  merely  for  the  sake  of 
sympathy,  but  rather  for  the  sake  of  your  assist- 
ance. I  am  going  to  tell  you  who  I  am,  and 
why  I  came  out  here. 

"My  name  is  not  Compton.  It  is  Henry 
Lawton.  All  my  early  life  was  passed  at  York. 
There  I  married,  had  a  son,  and  lived  happily 
for  years — in  fact,  during  the  childhood  of  my 
boy. 

'"  It  was  that  boy  of  mine,  Edgar,  that  led  to 
all  my  troubles.  I  uuppose  we  indulged  him  too 
much.  ItwasnaturaL  He  was  our  only  child, 
and  so  we  ruined  him.  He  got  beyond  our  con- 
trol at  last,  and  used  to  run  wild  about  the  streets 
of  York.  I  did  what  I  could  to  save  him,  but  it 
was  too  late. 

"  He  went  on  from  bad  to  worse,  until  ac  last 
he  got  in  with  a  set  of  miscreants  who  were 
among  the  worst  in  the  country.  My  God !  to 
think  how  my  boy,  once  a  sweet  child,  could 
have  fallen  so  low.  But  he  was  weak,  and  easily 
led,  and  so  he  went  or  from  bad  to  worse. 

"  I  con  not  bear  to  go  into  particulars,"  said 
the  old  man,  after  a  long  pause.  "  I  will  come 
at  once  to  the  point.  My  poor,  wretched  boy 
got  in  with  these  miscreants,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
and  I  did  not  see  him  from  one  month's  end  to 
another.  At  last  a  great  burglary  took  place. 
Three  were  arrested.  Among  these  twiy  were 
old  offenders,  hardened  in  vice,  the  one  named 
Briggs,  the  other  Crocker ;  the  third  was  my  un- 
happy boy." 

The  old  man  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"  I  do  not  think,  after  all,  that  he  was  guilty ; 
but  Briggs  turned  King's  Evidence,  and  Crocker 
and  my  son  were  condemned  to  transportation. 
There  was  no  help. 

"  I  sold  out  all  I  had  in  the  world,  and  in  com- 
pliance with  the  entreaties  of  my  pooi  ivlfe,  who 
nearly  went  mad  with  grief,  I  came  out  here.  I 
changed  my  name  to  Compton.  My  boy's  term 
was  for  three  years.  I  began  a  basiness  out  here, 
and  as  my  boy  behaved  well  he  was  able  to  get 
permission  to  hiie  out  as  a  servant.  I  took  him 
nominally  as  my  servant,  for  no  one  knew  that 
he  was  my  son,  and  so  we  had  hini  with  us 
again. 

"  I  hoped  that  the  bitter  lesson  which  he  had 
learned  would  prove  beneficial,  but  I  did  not  knew 
the  strength  of  evil  inclinations.  As  long  as  his 
term  of  imprisonment  lasted  he  was  content  and 
behaved  well ;  but  at  last,  when  the  three  years 
were  up,  he  began  to  grow  restive.  Crocker  was 
freed  at  about  the  same  time,  and  my  boy  fell 
again  under  his  evil  influence.  This  lasted  for 
about  a  year,  when,  at  last,  one  morning  a  letter 
was  brought  me  from  him  stating  that  he  had 
gone  to  Indi^. 

"My  poor  wife  was  again  nearly  distracted. 
She  thought  of  nothing  but  her  boy.     She  made 


roe  take  her  and  go  in  search  of  him  again.  So 
we  went  to  India.  After  a  long  search  I  found 
him  there,  as  I  had  feared,  in  connectioi:  with 
his  old,  vicious  associates.  True,  they  had  changed 
their  namea,  and  were  trying  to  pass  for  h  nest 
men.  Crocker  called  himself  Clark,  and  Bnggs 
called  himself  Potts. " 

"  Potts !"  cried  Brandon. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  who  was  too  absorbed 
in  his  own  thoughts  to  notice  the  surprise  of 
Brandon.  "He  was  in  the  employ  of  Colonel 
Despard,  at  Calcutta,  and  enjoyed  much  of  his 
coufldence." 

"  What  year  was  this?"  a&ked  Brandon. 

"  1825,"  replied  Mr.  Compton.  "Crocker," 
he  continued,  "  was  acting  as  a  sort  of  shipping 
agent,  and  my  son  was  his  clerk.  C>f  course,  my 
first  efforts  were  directed  toward  detaching  my 
son  from  these  scoundrels.  I  did  all  that  I  could. 
I  offered  to  give  him  half  of  my  property,  and 
finally  all,  it  he  would  only  leave  thom  forever 
and  come  back.  The  wretched  boy  refuse^.  He 
did  not  appear  to  be  altogether  i»d,  but  he  had 
a  weak  nature,  and  could  not  get  rid  of  the  in- 
fluence of  these  mciu 

"I  staid  in  India  a  year  and  a  half,  until  I 
found  at  last  tbut  there  was  no  hope.  I  could 
find  nothing  to  do  then;,  and  if  I  remained  I 
would  have  to  starve  or  go  out  to  service.  This 
I  could  not  think  of  doing.  So  I  prepared  to 
come  back  here.  But  ray  wife  nefused  to  leave 
her  son.  She  was  resolved,  she  said,  to  stay  by 
him  till  the  last.  I  tried  to  dissuade  her,  but 
could  not  mova  her.  I  told  her  that  I  could  not 
be  a  domestic.  She  said  that  she  could  do  even 
that  for  the  sake  of  her  boy.  And  she  went  off 
at  once,  and  got  a  situation  as  nurse  with  the 
same  Colonel  Despard  with  whom  Briggs,  or,  as 
he  called  himself,  Potts,  was  staying." 

"  What  was  the  Christian  name  of  this  Potts  ?" 
asked  Brandon,  calmly. 

"John— John  Potts." 

Brandon  said  Qothiag  furtlier,  And  Compton 
resumed. 

"Thus  my  wife  acttudly  left  me.  I  could  not 
stay  and  be  a  slave.  So  I  made  her  promise  to 
^viite  me,  and  told  her  that  I  woidd  send  her  as 
much  money  as  I  could.  She  clnng  to  me  half 
broken-hearted  as  I  left  her.  Our  parting  was 
a  bitter  one — bitter  enough ;  but  I  would  rather 
break  my  heart  'with  grief  than  be  a  sen'ant. 
Besides,  she  knew  taat  whenever  she  came  back 
my  heart  was  open  to  receive  her. 

"  I  came  back  to  my  lonely  life  out  here  and 
lived  for  nearly  two  years.  At  last,  in  Septem- 
ber 1828,  a  mail  arrived  from  India  bringing  a 
letter  from  my  wife,  and  Indian  papers.  The 
news  which  they  brought  well-nigh  drqve  me 
mad." 

Compton  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  re- 
mained silent  for  some  time. 

"You  couldn't  have  been  more  than  a  child 
at  that  time,  but  perhaps  you  may  have  heard 
of  the  mysterious  murder  of  Colonel  Des- 
pard?' 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  Brandon,  but  the  lat- 
ter gave  no  sign. 

"Perhaps  not,"  he  continued — "no;  you 
were  too  young,  of  course.  Well,  it  was  in  the 
Vishnu,  a  brig  in  which  the  Colonel  had  em- 
barked for  Manilla.  The  brig  was  laden  with 
hogshead  staves  and  box  shooks,  and  the  Col- 


16 


CORD  i\ND  CREESE. 


v-^ 


"xuuue's  somk  mysteky  aboct  it  which  I  can't  fathom. 


onel  went  there  partly  for  his  health,  partly  on 
business,  taking  with  him  his  valet  Potts." 

"What  became  of  his  family?"  interrupted 
Brandon. 

"He  had  a  son  in  England  at  school.  His 
wife  had  died  not  long  before  this  at  one  of 
the  hill  stations,  where  she  had  gone  for  her 
health.  Grief  may  have  had  something  to  do 
with  the  Colonel's  voyage,  for  he  was  very  much 
attached  to  his  wife. 

"  Mails  used  only  to  come  at  long  intervals  in 
those  days,  and  this  one  brought  the  account 
not  only  of  the  Colonel's  fate,  but  of  the  trial  at 
Manilla  and  the  execution  of  the  man  that  was 
condemned. 

"It  was  a  very  mysterious  case.  In  the 
month  of  July  a  boat  arrived  at  Manilla  which 
carried  the  crew  and  one  passenger  from  the  brig 
Vishnu.  One  of  the  men,  a  Malay  named  Ura- 
cao,  was  in  irons,  and  he  was  immediately  given 
up  to  the  authorities." 

"  Who  were  the  others  ?" 

"Potts,  as  he  called  himself,  the  Colonel's 
valet,  Clark,  three  Lascars,  and  the  Captain,  au 
Italian  named  Cigole.     Information  was  at  once 


laid  against  the  Malay.  Potts  was  the  chief  wit- 
ness. He  said  that  he  slept  in  the  cabin  whila 
the  Colonel  slept  in  an  inner  state-room ;  that 
one  morning  early  he  was  roused  by  a  frightful 
shriek  and  saw  Uracao  rushing  from  the  Col- 
onel's state-room.  He  sprang  up,  chased  him, 
and  caught  him  just  as  he  was  about  to  leap 
overboai'd.  His  creese  covered  with  blood  was 
in  his  hand-  The  Colonel,  when  they  went  to 
look  at  him^  had  his  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear. 
Clark  swore  that  he  was  steering  the  vessel  and 
saw  Potts  catch  Uracao,  and  helped  to  hold  him. 
The  Captain,  Cigole,  swore  that  he  was  waked 
by  the  noise,  and  rushed  out  in  time  to  see  this. 
Clark  had  gone  as  mate  of  the  vessel.  Of  the 
Lascars,  two  had  been  down  below,  but  one  was 
on  deck  and  swore  to  have  seen  the  same.  On 
this  testimony  Uracao  was  condemned  and  exe- 
cuted." 

"  How  did  they  happen  to  leave  the  brig  ?" 
"  They  said  that  a  great  storm  came  up  about 
three  days'  sail  from  Manilla,  the  vessel  sprang 
a  leak,  and  they  had  to  take  to  the  boat.  Their 
testimony  wtts  very  clear  indeed,  and  there  were 
no  contradictions ;  but  in  spite  of  all  this  it  was 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


If 


felt  to  be  a  very  mysterioas  case,  and  even  the 
exhibition  of  the  Malay  creese,  carefully  cov- 
ered with  the  stains  of  blood,  did  not  altogether 
dispel  this  feeling." 

"  Have  you  got  the  papers  yet,  or  are  there  any 
in  Sydney  that  contain  an  account  of  this  ati'air  ?  ' 

"  I  have  kept  them  all.  You  mav  read  the 
whole  case  if  you  care  about  it." 

"I  should  like  to,  very  much,"  said  Brandon, 
with  great  calmness. 

"  When  I  heard  of  this  before  the  mail  was 
opened  I  felt  an  agony  of  fear  lest  my  miserable 
boy  might  be  implicated  in  some  way.  To  my 
immense  relief  his  name  did  not  occur  at  all." 

"  You  got  a  letter  from  your  wife  ?"  saiC  Bran- 
don, interrogatively. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  sigh.  "  The 
last  that  I  ever  received  from  her.  Here  it  is. " 
Auu,  ing  this,  he  opened  his  pocket-book  and 
took  c  JL  letter,  worn  and  faded,  and  blackened 
by  frequent  readings. 

Brandon  took  it  respectfully,  and  read  the  fol- 
lo^ving : 

"Caloctta,  August  15, 1828. 

"Mtdbahest  Henby, — By  the  papers  that 
I  send  you,  you  will  see  what  has  occurred.  Our 
dear  Edgar  is  well,  indeed  better  than  usual,  and 
I  would  feel  much  cheered  if  it  were  not  for  the 
sad  fate  of  the  poor  Colonel.  This  is  the  last  let- 
ter that  you  will  ever  receive  from  me.  I  am 
going  to  leave  this  countiy  never  to  return,  and 
do  not  yet  know  where  I  ^vill  go.  Wherever  I 
go  I  will  be  with  my  darling  Edgar.  Do  not 
worry  about  me  or  about  him.  It  will  be  better 
for  you  to  try  and  forget  all  about  us,  since  we 
are  from  this  time  the  same  as  dead  to  you. 
Good-by  forever,  my  dearest  husband ;  it  shall 
be  my  daily  prayer  that  God  may  bless  you. 
"  Your  affectionate  wife,  Mary." 

Brandon  read  this  in  silence,  and  handed  it 
back. 

"A  strange  letter,"  said  Compton,  mournful- 
ly. "At  first  it  gave  a  bitter  pang  to  think  of 
my  Mary  thus  giving  me  up  forever,  so  coldly, 
and  for  no  reason :  but  afterward  I  began  to  un- 
derstand why  she  wrote  this. 

"My  belief  is,  that  these  villains  kept  my  son 
in  their  clutches  for  some  good  reason,  and  that 
they  had  some  equally  good  reason  for  keeping 
her.  There's  some  mystery  about  it  which  I 
can't  fathom.  Perhaps  she  knew  too  much  about 
the  Colonel's  affairs  to  be  allowed  to  go  free. 
They  might  have  detained  her  by  working  upon 
her  love  for  her  son,  or  simply  by  terrifying  her. 
She  was  always  a  timid  soul,  poor  Mary.  That 
letter  is  not  her  composition ;  there  is  not  a  word 
there  that  sounds  like  her,  and  they  no  doubt  told 
her  what  to  write,  or  wrote  out  something,  and 
made  her  copy  it. 

"And  now, "  said  Compton,  after  another  long 
pause,  "I  have  got  to  the  end  of  my  story.  I 
know  nothing  more  about  them.  I  have  lived 
here  ever  since,  at  first  despairing,  but  of  late 
more  resigned  to  my  lot.  Yet  still  if  I  have  one 
desire  in  Ufe  it  is  to  get  some  trace  of  these  dear 
ones  whom  I  still  love  as  tenderly  as  ever.  You, 
my  dear  boy,  with  your  ability  may  conjecture 
some  way.  Besides,  you  will  perhaps  be  travel- 
ing more  or  less,  and  may  be  able  to  hear  of 
their  &te.  This  is  the  condition  that  I  make. 
I  implore  you  by  your  pity  for  a  heart-broken 


father  to  do  as  I  say  and  help  me.  Half!  why, 
I  viould  give  all  that  I  have  if  I  could  get  tbem 
back  attain." 

Brandon  shuddered  peixeptiblj  «4  the  words 
"heart-broken  father;"  but  he  quickly  recov- 
ered himself  He  took  Comptcm's  hand  aad 
pressed  it  warmly. 

' '  Dear  friend,  I  will  make  no  objection  to  any 
thing,  and  I  promise  you  that  all  my  best  efforts 
shall  be  directed  toward  finding  them  oat." 

"Tell  them  to  come  to  me,  that  I  am  rich, 
and  can  make  them  happy. " 

"  I'll  make  them  go  to  you  if  they  are  alive," 
said  Brandon. 

"Grod  bless  you!"  ejaculated  the  cAd  man, 
fervently. 

Brandon  spent  the  greater  part  of  that  day  in 
making  busineds  arrangements,  and  in  reading 
the  papers  which  Compton  had  proserved  con- 
taining an  account  of  the  Despard  mnrdsr. 

It  was  late  at  night  before  he  returned  to  bis 
hotel.  As  he  went  into  the  hall  he  saw  a  stran- 
ger sitting  there  in  a  lounging  attitude  raiding 
the  Sydney  News. 

He  was  a  thin,  small-sized  man,  with  a  foreign 
air,  and  quick,  restless  manner.  His  features 
were  small,  a  heavy  beard  and  mustache  covered 
his  face,  his  brow  was  low,  and  his  eyes  black 
and  twinkling.  A  sharp,  furtive  glance  which 
he  gave  at  Brandon  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
latter,  for  there  was  something  in  the  glance 
that  meant  more  than  idle  curiosity. 

Even  in  the  midst  of  his  cares  Brandon's  curi- 
osity was  excited.  He  walked  with  assumed  in- 
diftierence  up  to  the  desk  as  though  looking  for  the 
key  of  his  room.  Glancing  at  the  hotel  book  his 
eye  ranged  down  the  column  of  nwues  till  it  rest- 
ed on  the  last  one, 

'' Pietro  Cigole." 

— Cigole !  the  name  brought  singular  associa- 
tions. Had  this  man  still  any  connection  with 
Potts  ?  The  words  of  his  father's  letter  rushed 
into  his  mind — "His  arm  may  reach  even  to 
the  antipodes  to  strike  you.  Be  on  your  guard. 
Watch  every  one.  He  has  some  dark  plan 
against  you ! " 

With  these  thoughts  in  his  mind  Brandon 
went  up  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  ni. 
"a  man  overboard!" 

Ik  so  small  a  town  as  Sydney  then  was  Bran< 
don  could  hope  to  learn  all  that  could  be  learned 
about  Cigole.  By  casual  inquiries  he  learned 
that  the  Italian  had  come  out  in  the  Rival,  and 
had  given  out  that  he  was  agent  for  a  London 
house  in  the  wool  business.  He  had  bought  up 
a  considerable  quantity  which  he  was  preparing 
to  ship. 

Brandon  could  not  help  feeling  that  there  was 
some  ruse  about  this.  Yet  he  thought,  on  the 
other  hand,  why  should  he  flaunt  his  name  so 
boldly  before  the  world  ?  If  he  is  in  reality  fol- 
lowing me  why  should  he  not  drop  his  name  ? 
But  then,  again,  why  should  he?  Perhaps  he 
thinks  that  I  can  not  possibly  know  any  thing 
about  his  name.  Why  should  I  ?  I  was  a  child 
when  Despard  was  murdered.  It  may  be  merely 
a  similarity  of  names. 


18 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


>ft 


Brandon  from  time  to  time  had  opportunities 
of  hearing  mure  about  Cigole,  yet  always  the  Kian 
seemed  ubsorbed  in  business. 

He  wondered  to  himself  whether  he  had  better 
confide  his  suspicions  to  Mr.  Compton  or  not. 
Yet  why  should  he  ?  The  old  man  would  become 
excited,  and  feel  all  sorts  of  wild  hopes  about 
discovering  his  wife  and  son.  Could  it  be  possi- 
ble that  the  Italian  after  so  many  years  could 
now  aflbrd  any  dew  whatever  ?  Certainly  it  was 
not  very  probable. 

On  the  whole  Brandon  thought  that  this  man, 
whoever  he  was  or  whatever  his  purpose  might 
be,  would  be  encountered  best  by  liimself  singly. 
If  Mr.  Compton  took  part  he  would  at  once 
awaken  Cigole's  fears  by  his  clumsiness. 

Brandon  felt  quite  cerUiin  that  Mr.  Compton 
would  not  know  any  tiling  about  Cigole's  presence 
in  Sydney  unless  he  himself  told  liim.  For  the 
old  man  was  so  filled  with  trouble  at  the  loss  of 
his  partner  that  ho  could  think  of  nothing  else, 
and  all  his  thought!!  were  taken  up  with  closing 
up  the  concern  so  as  to  send  forward  remittances 
of  money  to  London  as  soon  as  possible.  Mr. 
Compton  had  arranged  for  him  to  draw  £2000 
on  iiis  niTivol  at  London,  and  three  months  after- 
ward iintlOO— £10,000  would  be  remitted  daring 
tlie  following  year. 

Brandon  had  come  to  the  conclusion  to  tell 
Mr.  Compton  about  Cigole  before  he  left,  so  that 
if  the  man  remained  in  the  country  he  might  be 
bribed  or  otherwise  induced  to  tell  what  he  knew ; 
yet  thinking  it  possible  that  Cigole  had  designed 
to  return  in  the  same  ship  with  him,  he  waited 
to  see  how  things  would  turn  out.  As  he  could 
not  help  associating  Cigole  in  his  mind  with 
I'otts,  so  lie  thought  that  whichever  way  he 
turned  this  man  would  try  to  follow  him.  His 
anticipations  proved  correct.  He  had  taken  pas- 
sage in  the  ship  Java,  and  two  days  before  the 
vessel  left  he  learned  that  Cigole  had  Uikcn  his 
passage  in  her  also,  having  put  on  board  a  con- 
siderable quantity  of  wool.  On  the  whole  Bran- 
don felt  gratified  to  hear  this,  for  the  close  asso- 
ciation of  a  long  sea  voyage  would  give  him  op- 
portunities to  test  this  man,  and  probe  him  to 
the  bottom.  The  thought  of  danger  arising  to 
himself  did  not  enter  his  mind.  He  believed  that 
Cigole  meant  mischief,  but  liad  too  much  confi- 
dence in  his  own  powers  to  fear  it. 

On  the  Sth  of  August  the  ship  Java  was 
ready,  and  Mr.  Compton  stood  on  the  quarter- 
deck to  bid  good-by  to  Brandon. 

"God  bless  you,  dear  boy !  You  will  find  the 
money  coming  promptly,  and  Smithers  &  Co.'s 
house  is  one  of  the  strongest  in  London.  I  have 
brought  you  a  parting  gift,"  said  he,  in  a  low 
voice.  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  pistol,  which 
in  those  days  was  less  known  than  now — indeed, 
this  was  the  first  of  its  kind  which  had  reached 
Australia,  and  Mr.  Compton  had  paid  a  fabulous 
price  for  it.  "  Here,"  said  he,  "take  this  to  re- 
member me  by.  They  call  it  a  revolver.  Here 
is  a  box  of  patent  cartridges  that  go  with  it.  It 
is  from  me  to  you.  And  mind,"  he  continued, 
while  there  came  over  his  face  a  vengeful  look 
which  Brandon  had  never  seen  there  before — 
"  mind,  if  ever  you  see  John  Potts,  give  him  one 
of  those  patent  cartridges,  and  tell  him  it  is  the 
last  gift  of  a  broken-hearted  father." 

Brandon's  face  turned  ghastly,  and  his  lips 
seemed  to  freeze  into  a  smile  of  deadly  meaning. 


"  God  bless  yon  1"  cried  Compton,  "  I  see  by 
your  face  that  you  will  do  it.     Good-by. " 

He  wrung  Brandon's  hand  hard  and  left  the 
ship. 

About  six  feet  away  stood  Cigole,  looking  over 
the  stem  and  smoking  a  cigar.  He  was  near 
enough  to  hear  what  had  been  said,  but  he  did 
not  appear  to  have  heard  it.  Throwing  his  cigar 
into  the  water,  he  plunged  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  and  began  whistling  a  lively  air. 

"Aha,  Capitano,"  said  he,  in  a  foreign  Decent, 
"  I  have  brought  my  wool  off  at  last." 

Brandon  paced  the  deck  silently  yet  watch- 
fully. ^ 

The  good  ship  Java  went  out  with  a  fine 
breeze,  which  continued  for  some  days,  until  at 
last  nothing  could  be  seen  but  the  wide  ocean. 
In  those  few  days  Brandon  had  settled  himself 
comfortably  on  board,  and  had  learned  pretty  well 
the  kind  of  life  which  he  would  have  to  lead  for  the 
next  six  months  or  so.  The  captain  was  a  quiet, 
amiable  sort  of  a  person,  without  much  force  of 
character;  the  mate  was  more  energetic  and 
somewhat  passionate ;  the  crew  consisted  of  the 
average  order  of  men.  There  was  no  chance, 
certainly,  for  one  of  those  conspiracies  such  as 
Mr.  Compton  had  hinted  at  as  ha^•i^g  taken  place 
on  the  Vishnu ;  for  in  his  account  of  that  affair 
he  evidently  believed  that  Uracao  had  been  made 
a  scape-goat  for  the  sins  of  the  others. 

Brandon  was  soon  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
the  officers  of  the  ship.  As  to  Cigole  it  was  dif- 
ferent. The  fact  of  their  being  the  only  passen- 
gers on  board  might  of  itself  have  been  a  sufl[i- 
cient  cause  to  draw  them  togiiiher ;  but  Brandon 
found  it  difficult  to  pass  beyond  the  extremest 
limits  of  formal  intercour&e.  Brandon  himself 
considered  that  his  purposes  would  be  best  scr^'ed 
by  close  association  with  this  man ;  he  hoped  that 
in  the  course  of  such  association  he  might  draw 
something  from  Cigole.  But  Cigole  baffled  him 
constantly.  He  was  as  polite  and  courteous  as 
all  Italians  are ;  he  had  an  abundance  of  remarks 
all  ready  about  the  state  of  the  weather,  the  pros- 
pects of  the  voyage,  or  the  health  of  the  seamen ; 
but  beyond  these  topics  it  was  difficult  to  induce 
him  to  go.  Brandon  stifled  the  resentment  which 
he  felt  toward  this  man,  in  his  efforts  to  break 
down  th2  barriers  of  formality  which  he  kept  up, 
and  sought  to  draw  him  out  on  the  subject  of  the 
wool  trade.  Yet  here  he  was  baffled.  Cigole 
always  took  up  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  speak- 
ing to  a  rival  in  business,  and  pretended  to  be 
very  cautious  and  guarded  in  his  remarks  about 
wool,  as  though  he  feared  that  Brandon  would 
interifere  with  his  prosjiects.  This  sort  of  thing 
was  kept  up  with  such  great  delicacy  of  man- 
agement on  Cigole's  part  that  Brandon  himself 
would  have  been  completely  deceived,  and  would 
have  come  to  consider  him  as  nothing  more  than 
a  speculator  in  wool,  had  it  not  been  for  a  certain 
deep  instinct  within  him,  which  made  him  re- 
gard this  man  as  one  who  was  actuated  by  some- 
thing far  deeper  than  mere  regards  for  a  success- 
ful speculation. 

Cigole  managed  to  baffle  the  most  dextrous 
efforts  and  the  most  delicate  contrivances  of 
Brandon.  He  would  acknowledge  that  he  was 
an  Italian,  and  had  been  in  all  p.irts  of  Italy, 
but  carefully  refrained  from  telling  where  he  was 
bom.  He  asserted  that  this  was  the  first  time 
that  he  had  been  in  the  Eastern  seas.     He  re- 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


1» 


marked  once,  casoully,  that  Cigole  was  a  very 
common  name  among  Italians.  He  said  that 
he  had  no  acquaintances  at  all  in  England,  and 
was  only  going  there  now  because  he  heard  that 
there  was  a  good  market  for  wool.  At  another 
time  he  spoke  as  though  much  of  his  life  had 
been  piissed  in  Marseilles,  and  hinted  that  he 
was  a  partner  of  a  commercial  house  there. 

(Cigole  never  made  any  advances,  and  never 
even  met  half-way  those  which  Brandon  made. 
He  was  never  oif  his  guard  for  one  instant. 
Polite,  smiling,  furtive,  never  looking  Brandjn 
fairly  in  the  face,  he  usually  spoke  v  i;h  a  niofu- 
sion  of  bows,  gestures,  and  commonplaces,  ado;  t- 
ing,  in  fact,  that  part  which  is  always  at  once 
both  the  easiest  and  the  safest  to  play — the  non- 
committal, pure  and  perfect. 

It  was  cunning,  but  low  cunning  after  all,  and 
Brandon  perceived  that,  for  one  who  h  id  some 
purpose  to  accomplish  with  but  a  common  soul 
to  sustain  him,  this  was  the  most  ordinary  way 
to  do  it.  A  villain  of  profounder  cunning  or  of 
larger  spirit  would  have  pursued  a  different  path. 
He  would  have  conversed  freely  and  with  ap- 
parent unreser\'e ;  he  would  have  yielded  to  all 
friendly  advances,  and  made  them  himself;  he 
would  have  shown  the  highest  art  by  concealing 
art,  in  accordance  with  the  hacknejed  proverb, 
"  Ars  est  celare  artem." 

Brandon  despised  him  as  an  ordinary  villain, 
and  hardly  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  take 
any  particular  notice  of  him,  except  to  watch 
him  in  a  general  way.  But  Cigole,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  very  different.  His  eyes,  which  never 
met  those  of  Brandon  fairly,  were  constantly 
watching  him.  When  moving  about  the  quar- 
ter-deck or  when  sitting  in  the  cabin  he  usually 
had  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  pretending  to  be 
intent  on  something  else,  but  in  reality  watching 
Brandon's  acts  or  listening  to  his  words.  To 
any  other  man  the  knowledge  of  this  would  have 
been  in  the  highest  degree  irksome.  But  to 
Brandon  it  was  gratifying,  since  it  confirmed 
his  suspicions.  He  saw  this  man,  whose  con- 
stant efforts  were  directed  toward  not  commit- 
ting himself  by  word,  doing  that  very  thing  by 
his  attitude,  his  gesture,  and  the  furtive  glance 
of  his  eye.  Brandon,  too,  had  his  part,  but  it 
was  infinitely  greater  than  that  of  Cigole,  and 
the  purpose  that  now  animated  his  life  was  un- 
intelligible to  this  man  who  watched  him.  But 
Cigole's  whole  soul  was  apparent  to  Brandon ; 
and  by  his  small  arts,  his  low  cunning,  his  sly 
observation,  and  many  other  peculiarities,  he  ex- 
hibited that  which  is  seen  in  its  perfection  in  the 
ordinary  spy  of  despotic  countries,  such  as  nsed 
to  abound  most  in  Home  and  Naples  in  the  good 
old  days. 

For  the  common  spy  of  Europe  may  deceive 
the  English  or  American  traveler;  but  the 
Frenchman,  the  German,  the  Spaniard,  or  the 
Italian,  always  recognizes  him. 

So  Brandon's  superior  penetration  discovered 
tlie  true  character  of  Cigole. 

He  believed  that  this  man  was  the  same  Cigole 
who  had  figured  in  the  affair  of  the  Vishnu; 
that  he  had  been  sent  out  by  Potts  to  do  some 
injury  to  himself,  and  that  he  was  capable  of  any 
crime.  Yet  he  could  not  see  how  he  could  do 
any  thing.  He  certainly  could  not  incite  the  sim- 
ple-minded captain  and  the  honest  mate  to  con- 
spiracy.    He  was  too  great  a  coward  to  attempt 


any  violence.  So  Brandon  concluded  that  he 
had  simply  come  to  watch  him  so  as  to  learn  his 
character,  and  carry  back  to  Potts  all  the  knowl- 
edge that  ho  might  gain. 

This  was  his  conclusion  after  a  close  associa- 
tion of  one  month  with  Cigole.  Yet  he  made  up 
his  mind  not  to  lose  sight  of  this  man.  To  him 
he  appeared  only  an  agent  in  villainy,  and  there- 
fore unworthy  of  vengeance ;  yet  he  might  be 
made  use  of  as  an  aid  in  that  vengeance.  He 
therefore  wished  to  have  a  clew  by  which  he 
might  afterward  find  him. 

"  You  and  I,"  said  he  one  day,  in  conversa- 
tion, "are  both  in  the  same  trade.  If  I  ever 
get  to  England  I  may  wish  some  time  to  see  you» 
Where  can  I  find  you  ?" 

Cigole  looked  in  twenty  different  directions, 
and  hesitated  for  some  time. 

!'  Wellj"  said  he  at  last,  "  I  do  not  think  that 
you  will  wish  to  see  me — "  and  he  hesitated ; 
"but,"  he  resumed,  with  an  evil  smile,  "if  yon 
should  by  any  possibilit/  wish  to  do  so,  you  can 
find  out  where  I  am  by  inquiring  of  Giovanni 
Cavallo,  16  Red  Lion  Street,  London." 

"Perhaps  I  may  not  wish  to,"  said  Brandon, 
coolly,  "and  perhaps  I  may.  At  any  rate,  if  I 
do,  1  will  remember  to  inquire  of  Giovanni  Ca- 
vallo, 16  Red  Lion  Street,  London." 

He  spoke  with  deep  emphasis  on  the  address. 
Cigole  looked  uncomfortable,  as  though  he  had 
at  last  made  the  mistake  which  he  dreaded,  and 
had  committed  himself. 

So  the  time  passed. 

After  the  first  few  days  the  weather  had  be- 
come quite  stormy.  Strong  head-winds,  accom- 
panied often  by  very  heavy  rains,  had  to  be  en- 
countered. In  spite  of  this  the  ship  had  a  very 
good  passage  northward,  and  met  with  no  par- 
ticular obstacle  until  hftr  course  was  turned  to- 
ward the  Indian  Ocean.  Then  all  the  winds 
were  dead  against  her,  and  for  weeks  a  succes- 
sion of  long  tacks  far  to  the  north  and  to  the 
south  brought  liei  but  a  short  distance  onward. 
Every  day  made  the  wind  more  violent  and  the 
storm  worse.  And  now  the  season  of  the  equi- 
nox was  approaching,  when  the  monsoons  change, 
and  all  the  winds  that  sweep  over  these  seas  alter 
their  courses.  For  weeks  before  and  after  this 
season  the  winds  are  all  unsettled,  and  it  seems 
as  if  the  elements  were  let  loose.  From  the 
first  week  in  September  this  became  manifest, 
and  every  day  brought  them  face  to  face  with 
sterner  difficulties.  Twice  before  the  captain 
had  been  to  Australia;  and  for  years  he  had 
been  in  the  China  trade ;  so  that  he  knew  these 
seas  well ;  but  he  said  that  he  had  never  known 
the  equinoctial  storms  begin  so  early,  and  rage 
with  such  violence. 

Opposed  by  such  difficulties  as  these  the  ship 
made  but  a  slow  passage — the  best  routes  had 
not  yet  been  discovered — and  it  was  the  middle 
of  September  before  they  entered  the  Indian 
Ocean.  The  weather  then  became  suddenly 
calm,  and  they  drifted  along  beyond  the  latitude 
of  the  western  extremity  of  Java,  about  a  hun- 
dred miles  south  of  the  Straits  of  Sunda.  Here 
they  began  to  encounter  the  China  fleet  which 
steers  through  this  strait,  for  every  day  one  or 
more  sails  were  visible. 

Here  they  were  borne  on  helplessly  by  the 
ocean  currents,  which  at  this  place  are  numerous 
and  distracted.     The  streams  that  flow  through 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


the  many  isles  of  the  Indian  Archipelago,  uniting 
with  the  greater  southeni  btreams,  here  meet  and 
blend,  causing  great  difficulties  to  navigation, 
and  often  baffiing  even  the  most  experienced  sea- 
man. Yet  it  was  not  all  left  to  the  current,  for 
frequently  and  suddenly  the  storms  came  up; 
und  the  weather,  ever  changeful,  kept  the  sailors 
constantly  on  the  alert. 

Yet  between  the  storms  the  calms  were  fre- 
quent, and  sometimes  long  continued,  though  of 
such  a  sort  as  required  watchfulness.  For  out 
of  the  midst  of  dead  calms  the  storm  would  sud- 
denly rise  in  its  might,  and  all  the  care  which 
cixperience  could  suggest  was  nof  always  able  to 
avert  disaster. 

' '  I  don't  like  thi^  weather,  Mr.  Brandon.  It's 
the  worst  that  we  could  have,  especially  just 
here/' 

"\VTiy  just  here?" 

"Why,  we're  opposite  the  Straits  of  Sonda, 
the  worst  place  about  these  parts. " 

"What  for?" 

"Pirates.  The  Malays,  you  know.  We're 
not  over  well  prepared  to  meet  them,  I'm  afraid. 
If  they  come  we'll  have  to  fight  them  the  best 
way  we  can ;  and  these  calms  are  the  worst  thing 
for  us,  because  the  Malay  proas  can  get  along 
in  the  lightest  ^vind,  or  with  oars,  when  we  can't 
move  at  alL" 

"  Are  the  Malays  any  worse  than  usual  now  ?" 
asked  Brandon. 

"  Well,  no  worse  than  they've  been  for  the  last 
ten  years.     Zangorri  is  the  worst  of  them  all." 

' '  Zangorri !    I've  heard  of  him. " 

"  I  should  think  you  had.  Why,  there  never 
was  a  pirate  in  these  seas  that  did  so  much  dam- 
age. No  mortal  knows  the  ships  that  devil  has 
captured  and  burned. " 

"I  hope  you  have  arms  for  the  seamen,  at  any 
rate." 

"Oh,  we  have  one  howitzer,  and  small-arms 
for  the  men,  and  we  will  have  to  get  along  the 
best  way  we  can  with  these;  but  the  owners 
ought  never  to  send  us  here  without  a  better 
equipment." 

"  I  suppose  they  think  it  would  cost  too  much. " 

"Yes;  that's  it.  They  think  only  about  the 
profits,  and  trust  to  luck  for  our  safety.  Well, 
I  only  hope  we'll  get  safely  out  of  this  place — 
that's  all." 

And  the  captain  walked  off  much  more  ex- 
cited than  usual. 

They  drifted  on  through  days  of  calm,  which 
were  succeeded  by  fierce  but  short-lived  storms, 
and  then  followed  by  calms.  Their  course  lay 
sometimes  north,  sometimes  south,  sometimes 
nowhere.  Thus  the  time  passed,  until  at  length, 
about  the  .middle  of  September,  they  came  in 
sight  of  a  long,  low  island  of  sand. 

"I've  heard  of  that  sand-bank  before,"  said 
the  captain,  who  showed  some  surprise  at  see- 
ing it;  "but  I  didn't  believe  it  was  here.  It's 
not  down  in  the  charts.  Here  we  are  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  southwest  of  the  Straits  of 
Sunda,  and  the  chart  makes  this  place  all  open 
water.  Well,  seein's  believin' ;  and  after  this  I'll 
swear  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  Cofiin  Island. " 

"Is  that  the  name?" 

"  That's  the  name  an  old  sea-captain  gave  it, 
and  tried  to  get  the  Admiralty  to  put  it  on  the 
charts,  but  they  wouldn't.  But  this  is  it,  and 
DO  mistake." 


"  Why  did  he  call  it  Coffin  IsUnd  ?" 

"Well,  he  thought  that  rock  looked  like  a 
coffin,  and  its  dangerous  enough  when  a  fog 
comes  to  deserve  that  name. " 

Brandon  looked  earnestly  at  the  island  which 
the  captain  mentioned,  and  which  they  were 
slowly  approaching. 

It  lay  toward  the  north,  while  the  ship's  course, 
if  it  had  any  in  that  calm,  was  southwest.  It 
was  not  more  than  six  miles  away,  and  appeared 
to  be  about  five  miles  long.  At  the  nearest  ex- 
tremity a  black  rock  arose  to  a  height  of  about 
fifty  feet,  which  appeared  to  be  about  five  hun- 
dred feet  long,  and  was  of  such  a  shape  that  the 
imagination  might  ftasily  see  a  resemblance  to  a 
coffin.  At  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  island 
was  a  low  mound.  The  rest  of  the  island  was 
flat,  low,  and  sandy,  with  no  trace  of  vegetation 
perceptible  from  the  ship,  except  a  line  of  dingy 
green  under  the  rock,  which  looked  like  grass. 

The  ship  drifted  slowly  on. 

Meanwhile  the  captain,  in  anticipation  of  a 
storm,  had  caused  all  the  sailf  to  be  taken  in, 
and  stood  anxiously  watching  the  sky  towai'd 
the  southwest. 

There  a  dense  mass  of  clouds  lay  piled  along 
the  horizon,  gloomy,  lowering,  menacing;  frown- 
ing over  the  calm  seas  as  though  they  would  soon 
destroy  that  calm,  and  fling  forth  all  the  fury  of 
the  winds.  These  clouds  seemed  to  have  started 
up  from  the  sea,  so  sudden  had  been  their  ap- 
pearance ;  and  now,  as  they  gathered  themselves 
together,  their  forms  distended,  and  heightened, 
and  reached  forward  vast  arms  into  tne  sky, 
striving  to  climb  there,  rolling  upward  volumin- 
ous cloud  masses  which  swiftly  ascended  toward 
the  zenith.  So  quick  was  the  progress  of  these 
clouds  that  they  did  not  seem  to  come  from  the 
banks  below ;  but  it  was  rather  as  though  all  the 
air  suddenly  condensed  its  moisture  and  made  it 
visible  in  these  dark  masses. 

As  yet  there  was  no  wind,  and  the  water  was 
as  smooth  as  glass ;  but  over  the  wide  surface, 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  long  swell  of 
the  ocean  had  changed  into  vast  rolling  undula- 
tions, to  the  motion  of  which  the  ship  yielded, 
slowly  ascending  and  descending  as  the  waters 
rose  and  fell,  while  the  yards  creaked,  and  the 
rigging  twanged  to  the  strain  upon  them. 

Every  moment  the  sky  grew  darker,  and  as 
gloom  gathered  above  so  it  increased  below,  till 
all  the  sea  spread  out  a  smooth  ebon  mass. 
Darkness  settled  down,  and  the  sun's  face  was 
thus  obscured,  and  a  preternatural  gloom  gather- 
ed upon  the  face  of  nature.  Overhead  vast  black 
clouds  went  sweeping  past,  covering  all  things, 
faster  and  faster,  till  at  last  far  down  in  the 
northern  sky  the  heavens  were  all  obscured. 

But  amidst  all  this  there  was  as  yet  not  a 
breath  of  wind.  Far  above  the  wind  careered 
in  a  narrow  current,  which  did  not  touch  the  sur- 
face of  the  sea  but  only  bore  onward  the  clouds. 
The  agitation  of  the  sky  above  contrasted  with 
the  stillness  below  made  the  latter  not  consoling 
but  rather  fearful,  for  this  could  be  none  other 
than  that  treacherous  stillness  which  precedes 
the  sudden  outburst  of  the  hurricane. 

For  that  sudden  outburst  all  were  now  look- 
ing, expecting  it  every  moment.  On  the  side 
of  the  ship  where  the  wind  was  expected  the 
captain  was  standing,  looking  anxiously  at  the 
i  black  clouds  on  the  horizon,  and  all  the  crew 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


21 


HE   FU8HBD    HIM   HEADLONG   OVER  THE   RAIL   ASU   HELPLESSLY   INTO  THE   SEA. 


were  gazing  there  in  sympathy  with  him.  From 
that  quarter  the  wind  would  burst,  and  it  was 
for  this  assault  that  all  the  preparations  had  been 
made. 

For  some  time  Brandon  had  watched  the  col- 
lecting clouds,  but  at  length  he  turned  away, 
and  seemed  to  find  a  supreme  fascination  in  the 
sand-bank.  He  stood  at  the  stern  of  the  ship, 
looking  fixedly  toward  the  rock,  his  arms  fold- 
ed, and  his  thoughts  all  absorbed  in  that  one 
thing.  A  low  railing  ran  round  the  quarter- 
deck. The  helmsman  stood  in  a  sheltered  place 
which  rose  only  two  feet  abo\  3  the  deck.  The 
captain  stood  by  the  companion-way,  looking 
south  at  the  storm ;  the  mate  was  near  the  caj)- 
stan,  and  all  were  intent  and  absorbed  in  their 
expectation  of  a  sudden  squall. 

Close  by  the  rudder-post  stood  Cigole,  look- 
ing with  all  the  rest  at  the  gathering  storm.  His 
face  was  only  half  turned,  and  as  usual  he  watch- 
ed this  with  only  a  furtive  glance,  for  at  times 
his  stealthy  eyes  turned  toward  Brandon ;  and 
he  alone  of  all  on  board  did  not  seem  to  be  ab- 
sorbed by  some  overmastering  thought. 

Suddenly  a  faint,  fluttering  ripple  appeared  to 
the  southward ;  it  came  quickly ;  it  seemed  to 
flash  over  the  waters ;  with  the  speed  of  the  wind 


it  moved  on,  till  a  quick,  fresh  blast  struck  the 
ship  and  sighed  through  the  rigging.  Then  a 
faint  breathing  of  wind  succeeded ;  but  far  away 
there  rose  a  low  moan  like  that  which  arises  from 
some  vast  cataract  at  a  great  distance,  whose 
roar,  subdued  by  distance,  sounds  faintly,  yet 
wamingly,  to  the  ear. 

At  this  first  touch  of  the  tempest,  and  the 
menacing  voice  of  its  approach,  not  a  word  was 
spoken,  but  all  stood  mute.  Brandon  alone  ap- 
peared not  to  have  noticed  it.  He  still  stood 
with  folded  arms  and  absorbed  air,  gazing  at 
the  island. 

The  roar  of  the  waters  in  the  distance  grew 
louder,  and  in  the  direction  from  which  it  came 
the  dark  water  was  all  white  with  foam,  and  the 
boiling  flood  advanced  nearer  in  myriad-num- 
bered waves,  which  seemed  now  like  an  army 
rushing  to  the  charge,  tossing  on  high  its  crested 
heads  and  its  countless  foam-plumes,  and  threat- 
ening to  bear  down  all  before  it. 

At  last  the  tornado  struck. 

At  the  fierce  blast  of  the  storm  the  ship  rolled 
far  over,  the  masts  creaked  and  groaned,  the 
waves  rushed  up  and  dashed  against  the  side. 

At  that  instant  Cigole  darted  quickly  toward 
Brandon,  and  the  moment  that  the  vessel  yield- 


23 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


ed  to  tho  blow  of  the  Btorm  he  fell  Aiolently 
against  him.  Before  Brandon  had  noticed  the 
storm  or  had  time  to  steady  himself  lie  had 

1)a8hed  him  headlong  over  the  rail  and  he'pless- 
y  into  the  sea — 

" liquidaa  projecit  In  nndas 

Pr«clpltein."^ 

Cis;ole  clung  to  the  rail,  and  instantly  shrieked 
out: 

' '  Man  overboard ! " 

The  startling  cry  rang  through  the  ship.  The 
captain  tamed  round  with  a  face  of  agony. 

"Man  overboard!"  shouted  Cigole  ngain. 
"Help!     It's  Brandon!" 

"Brandon!"  cried  the  captain.  "He's  lost! 
OGod!" 

He  took  up  a  hen-coop  from  its  fastenings  and 
flung  it  into  the  sea,  and  a  couple  of  pails  afte" 
it 

He  then  looked  alofb  and  to  the  south  with 
eyes  of  despair.  He  could  do  nothing.  For 
now  the  storm  was  upon  them,  and  the  ship 
was  plunging  furiously  through  the  waters  with 
the  speed  of  a  race- horse  at  the  touch  of  the 
gale.  On  the  lee -side  lay  the  sand -bank, 
now  only  three  miles  away,  whose  unknown 
shallows  made  their  present  position  perilous  in 
the  extreme.  The  ship  could  not  turn  to  try 
and  save  the  lost  passenger;  it  was  only  by 
keeping  straight  on  that  there  was  any  hope  of 
avoiding  that  lee-shore. 

All  on  board  shared  the  captain's  despair,  for 
all  saw  that  nothing  could  be  done.  The  ship 
was  at  the  mercy  of  the  hurricane.  To  turn  was 
impossible.  If  they  could  save  their  own  lives 
now  it  would  be  as  much  as  they  could  do. 

Away  went  the  ship — away,  farther  and  far- 
ther, every  moment  leaving  at  a  greater  distance 
the  lost  man  who  struggled  in  the  waters. 

At  last  they  had  passed  the  danger,  the  island 
was  left  behind,  and  the  wide  sea  lay  all  around. 

But  by  this  time  the  storm  was  at  its  height ; 
the  ship  could  not  maintain  its  proper  course, 
but,  yielding  to  the  gale,  fled  to  the  northwest 
fer  out  of  its  right  direction. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SINKING   IN    DEEP  WATERS. 

Brandon,  ovenvhelmed  by  the  rush  of  waters, 
half  suffocated,  and  struggling  in  the  rush  of  the 
waves,  shrieked  out  a  few  despairing  cries  for 
help,  and  sought  to  keep  his  head  above  water 
as  best  he  could.  But  his  cries  were  borne  off 
by  the  fierce  winds,  and  the  ship  as  it  careered 
madly  before  the  blast  was  soon  out  of  hearing. 

He  was  a  first-rate  swimmer,  but  in  a  sea  like 
this  it  needed  all  his  strength  and  all  his  skill  to 
save  himself  from  impending  death.  Encum- 
bered by  his  clothes  it  was  still  more  difficult, 
yet  so  fierce  was  the  rush  of  wind  and  wave  that 
he  dared  not  stop  for  a  moment  in  his  struggles 
in  order  to  divest  himself  of  his  clothing. 

At  first,  by  a  mere  blind  instinct,  he  tried  to 
swim  after  the  ship,  as  though  by  any  possibility 
he  could  ever  reach  her  again,  but  the  hurricane 
was  against  him,  and  he  was  forced  sideways  far 
out  of  the  course  which  he  was  trying  to  take. 
At  last  the  full  possession  of  his  senses  was  re- 
stored, and  following  the  ship  no  longer,   he 


turned  toward  the  direction  where  that  sand  isl- 
and lay  which  had  been  the  cause  of  his  disaster. 
At  first  it  was  hidden  from  view  by  the  swell  of 
waves  that  rose  in  front,  but  soon  rising  upon 
the  crest  of  one  of  these  he  perceived  far  away 
the  dark  form  of  the  coffin-shaped  rock.  Here 
then  before  him  lay  the  inland,  and  toward  this 
both  wind  and  wave  impelled  him. 

But  the  rock  was  far  to  the  right,  and  it  might 
be  that  the  island  did  not  extend  far  enough  to 
meet  him  as  he  neared  it.  It  was  about  five 
miles  in  length,  but  in  his  efforts  he  might  not  be 
able  to  reach  even  the  western  extremity.  Still 
there  was  nothing  elsp  to  do  but  to  trj'.  Reso- 
lutely, therefore,  though  half  despairingly,  he  put 
forth  ids  best  strength,  and  struggled  manfully  to 
win  the  shore. 

That  lone  and  barren  sand-bank,  after  all,  of- 
fered bui  a  feeble  chance  for  life.  Even  if  he 
did  reach  it,  which  was  doubtful,  what  could  he 
do?  Starvation  instead  of  drowning  would  be 
his  fate.  More  than  once  it  occurred  to  him  that 
it  would  be  better  then  and  there  to  give  up  all 
efforts  and  let  himself  go.  But  then  there  came 
the  thought  of  those  dear  ones  who  waited  for 
him  in  England,  the  thought  of  the  villain  who 
had  thrown  him  from  the  ship,  and  the  greater 
villain  who  had  sent  him  out  on  his  murderous 
errand.  He  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  they 
should  triumph  over  him  so  easily  and  so  quick- 
ly. His  vengeance  should  not  be  taken  from 
him ;  it  had  been  bafiSed,  but  it  still  nerved  his 
arm. 

A  half  hour's  struggle,  which  seemed  like 
many  hours,  had  brought  him  much  nearer  to 
the  island,  but  his  strength  was  almost  exhausted. 
His  clothes,  caught  in  the  rush  of  the  waves,  and 
clinging  to  him,  confined  the  free  action  of  his 
limbs,  and  lent  an  additional  weight.  Another 
half  hour's  exertion  might  possibly  bring  him  to 
the  shore,  but  that  exertion  hardly  seemed  possi- 
ble. It  was  but  with  difficulty  now  that  he  could 
strike  out.  Often  the  rush  of  the  waves  from  be- 
hind would  overwhelm  him,  and  it  was  only  by 
convidsive  efforts  that  he  was  able  to  surmount 
the  raging  billows  and  regain  his  breath. 

Efforts  like  these,  however,  were  too  exhaust- 
ive to  be  long  continued.  Nature  failed,  and 
already  a  wild  despair  came  over  him.  For  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  longer  he  had  continued  his 
exertions ;  and  now  the  island  was  so  near  that 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  more  might  bring  him  to  it. 
Rut  even  that  exertion  of  strength  was  now  no 
longer  possible.  Faintly  and  feebly,  and  with 
failing  limbs  and  fiercely- throbbing  heart,  he 
toiled  on,  until  at  last  any  further  effort  seemed 
impossible.  Before  him  was  the  mound  which 
he  had  noticed  from  the  ship.  He  was  at  the 
western  extremity  of  the  island.  He  saw  that 
he  was  being  carried  in  such  a  direction  that 
even  if  he  did  struggle  on  he  might  be  borne 
helplessly  past  the  island  and  out  into  the  open 
sea.  Already  he  could  look  past  the  island,  and 
see  the  wide  expanse  of  white  foaming  waves 
i  which  threatened  to  engulf  him.  The  sight 
weakened  what  little  strength  was  left,  and  made 
!  his  etibrts  even  feebler. 

Despairingly  he  looked  around,  not  knowing 

I  what  he  sought,  but  seeking  still  for  something, 

he  knew  not  what.     In  that  last  look  of  despair 

I  his  eyes  caught  sight  of  something  which  at  once 

gave  him  renewed  hope.     It  was  not  far  away. 


CORD  AND  CREE6E. 


28 


Borne  along  by  the  waves  It  waa  but  a  few  yards 
distant,  and  a  little  behind  him.  It  was  the  hen- 
coop which  the  Captain  of  the  Java  had  thrown 
overboard  so  as  to  give  Brandon  a  chance  for 
life.  That  last  chance  was  now  thrown  in  his 
way,  for  th«}  hen-coop  had  followed  the  same, 
course  with  himself,  and  had  been  swept  along 
not  very  far  from  him. 

Brandon  was  nerved  to  new  efforts  by  the  sight 
of  this.  He  turned  and  exerted  the  last  rem- 
nants of  his  strength  in  order  to  reach  this  means 
of  safetj'.  It  was  near  enough  to  l)e  accessible. 
A  few  vigorous  strokes,  a  few  struggles  with  the 
waves,  and  his  hands  clutched  the  bars  with  the 
grasp  of  a  drowning  man. 

It  was  a  large  hen-coop,  capable  of  keeping 
several  men  afloat.  Brandon  clung  to  this  and 
at  last  had  rest.  Every  minute  of  respite  from 
such  struggles  as  he  had  carried  on  restored  his 
strength  to  a  greater  degree.  He  coidd  now 
keep  his  head  high  out  of  the  water  and  avoid 
the  engulfing  fury  of  the  waves  behind.  Now  at 
last  he  could  take  a  better  survey  of  the  prospect 
before  him,  and  see  more  plainly  whither  he  was 
going. 

The  sand-bank  lay  before  him ;  the  monnd  at 
the  western  extremity  was  in  front  of  him,  not 
very  far  away.  The  rock  which  lay  at  the  east- 
em  end  was  now  at  a  great  distance,  for  he  had 
been  swept  by  the  current  abreast  of  the  island, 
and  was  even  now  in  danger  of  being  carried  past 
it.  Still  there  was  hope,  for  wind  and  wave 
were  blowing  directly  toward  the  island,  and 
there  was  a  chance  of  his  being  carried  full  upon 
its  shore.  Yet  the  chance  was  a  slender  one,  for 
the  set  of  the  tide  rather  carried  him  beyond  the 
hne  of  the  western  extremity. 

Every  minute  brought  him  nearer,  and  soon 
his  fate  would  be  decided.  Nearer  and  nearer 
he  came,  still  clinging  to  the  hen-coop,  and  mak- 
ing no  efforts  whatever,  but  reserving  and  collect- 
ing together  all  his  strength,  so  as  to  put  it  forth 
at  the  final  hour  of  need. 

But  as  he  came  nearer  the  island  appeared  to 
move  more  and  more  out  of  the  line  of  his  ap- 
proach. Under  these  circumstances  his  only 
chance  was  to  float  as  near  as  possible,  and  then 
make  a  last  effort  to  reach  the  land. 

Nearer  and  nearer  he  came.  At  last  he  was 
close  by  it,  but  the  extreme  point  of  the  island 
lay  to  the  right  more  than  twenty  yards.  This 
was  the  crisis  of  his  fate,  for  now  if  he  floated  on 
any  longer  he  would  be  earned  farther  away. 

The  shore  was  here  low  but  steep,  the  waters 
appeared  to  be  deep,  and  a  heavy  surf  dashed 
upoL  the  island,  and  threw  up  its  spray  far  over 
the  mound.  He  was  so  near  that  he  could  dis- 
tinguish the  pebbles  on  the  beach,  and  could  see 
beyond  the  mound  a  long,  flat  surface  with  thin 
grass  growing. 

Beyond  this  point  was  another  a  hundred  yards 
away,  but  farther  out  of  his  reach,  and  affording 
no  hope  whatever.  Between  the  two  points  there 
was  an  inlet  into  the  island  showing  a  I'ttle  cove ; 
but  the  surf  just  here  became  wilder,  and  long 
rollers  careered  one  past  another  over  the  inter- 
vening space.  It  was  a  hopeless  prospect.  Yet 
it  was  his  last  chance. 

Brandon  made  up  his  mind.  lie  let  go  the 
hen-coop,  and  summoning  up  all  his  strength  he 
struck  out  for  the  shore.  But  this  time  the  wind 
and  sea  were  against  him,  bearing  hhn  past  the 


point,  and  the  waves  dashed  over  him  more  qnick- 
ly  and  furiously  than  before.  He  was  swept  past 
the  point  before  he  had  made  half  a  dozen  strokes ; 
he  was  borne  on  still  struggling;  and  now  on 
his  left  lay  the  rollers  which  he  had  seen.  In 
spite  of  all  his  efforts  lie  was  farther  away  from 
the  island  than  when  he  had  left  the  hen-coop. 
Yet  all  hope  and  all  life  dejtended  ujion  the  issue 
of  this  last  effort.  The  fifteen  or  twenty  min- 
utes of  rest  and  of  breathing-space  which  lie  had 
gained  had  been  of  immense  advantage,  and  he 
struggled  with  all  the  force  which  could  be  in- 
spired by  the  nearness  of  safety.  Yet,  after  all, 
Imman  efforts  can  not  withstand  the  fury  of  the 
elements,  and  here  against  this  strong  sea  tho 
strongest  sv/immer  could  not  hope  to  contend 
successfully. 

"  Never  I  ween  was  swimmer 
In  such  au  evil  case." 

He  swam  toward  the  shore,  but  the  wind  strik- 
ing him  from  one  side,  and  urging  on  the  sea, 
drove  him  sideways,  ir^ome  progress  was  made, 
but  the  force  of  the  waters  was  fearful,  and  for 
every  foot  that  he  moved  forward  1ie  was  carried 
six  feet  to  leeward.  He  himself  saw  this,  and 
calculating  his  chances  he  perceived  with  despair 
that  he  was  already  beyond  the  first  ])oint,  and 
that  at  the  present  rate  there  was  no  possibility 
of  gaining  the  farther  point. 

Already  the  waves  leaped  exultingly  about 
him,  dashing  over  him  now  more  wildly,  since 
he  was  exposed  more  than  before  to  their  full 
8w«?ep.  Already  the  rollers  lay  close  beside  him 
on  his  left.  Then  it  seemed  as  though  he  would 
be  engulfed.  Turning  his  head  backward  with 
a  last  faint  thought  of  trying  to  regain  the  hen- 
coop, so  as  to  prolong  life  somewhat,  he  saw  it 
far  away  out  of  his  reach.  Then  all  hope  left 
him. 

He  was  now  at  the  outermost  line  of  rollers. 
At  the  moment  that  he  turned  his  head  a  huge 
wave  raised  him  up  and  bore  him  forward.  He 
struggled  still,  even  in  that  time  of  despair,  and 
fought  with  his  enemies.  They  bore  him  on- 
ward, however,  none  the  less  helplessly,  and  de- 
scending carried  him  with  them. 

But  now  at  last,  as  he  descended  with  that 
wave,  hope  came  back,  and  all  his  despair  van- 
ished. 

For  as  the  wave  flung  him  downward  his  feet 
touched  bottom,  and  he  stood  for  a  moment  erect, 
on  solid,  hard  sand,  in  water  that  scarcely  reached 
above  his  knees.  It  was  for  a  moment  only  that 
he  stood,  however,  for  the  sweep  of  the  water 
bore  him  down,  and  he  fell  forward.  Before  he 
could  regain  himself  another  wave  came  and 
hurled  him  farther  forward. 

By  a  violent  effort  he  staggered  to  his  feet. 
In  an  instant  he  comprehended  his  position.  At 
this  western  end  the  island  descended  gently 
into  the  water,  and  the  shonl  which  it  formed  ex- 
tended for  miles  away.  It  was  this  shoal  that 
caused  the  long  rollers  that  came  over  them  so 
vehemently,  and  in  such  marked  contrast  with 
the  more  abrupt  waves  of  the  sea  behind. 

In  an  instant  he  had  comprehended  this,  and 
had  tiken  his  course  of  action. 

Now  he  had  foothold.     Now  the  i^round  be- 
neatn  lent  its  aid  to  his  endeavor ;  he  w  as  no  lon- 
ger altogether  at  the  mercy  of  the  wfcter.     He  ' 
bounded  forward  toward  the  shore  in  such  a  di- 
ref:tion  that  he  could  approach  it  without  oppos- 


M 


CORD  AND  CREE-5E. 


"he  staggered  up  a  few  paces  upon  the  sandy  declivity." 


ing  himself  entirely  to  the  waves.  The  point 
that  stretched  out  was  now  within  his  reach. 
The  waves  rolled  past  it,  but  by  moving  in  an 
obliciue  direction  he  could  gain  it. 

Again  and  again  the  high  rollers  came  for- 
ward, hurling  him  up  as  they  caught  him  in  their 
embrace,  and  then  casting  him  down  again.  As 
he  was  caught  up  from  the  bottom  he  sustained 
himself  on  the  moving  mass,  and  supported  him- 
self on  the  crest  of  the  wave,  but  as  soon  as  his 
feet  touched  bottom  again  he  sprang  forward  to- 
ward the  point  which  now  became  every  minute 
more  accessible.  Wave  after  wave  came,  each 
more  furious,  each  more  ravenous  than  the  pre- 
ceding, as  though  hounding  one  another  on  to 


make  sure  of  their  prey.     But  now  that  the  hope 

of  life  was  strong,  and  safety  had  grown  almost 

assured,  the  deathlike  weakness  which  but  short- 

!  ly  before  had  assailed  him  gave  way  to  new-bom 

!  strength  and  unconquerable  resolve. 

I      At  length  he  reached  a  place  where  the  rollers 

were  of  less  dimensions.     His  progress  became 

:  more  rapid,  until  at  length  the  water  became  ex- 

i  ceedingly  shallow,  being  not  more  than  a  foot  in 

i  depth.     Here  the  first  point,  where  the  mound 

was,  protected  it  from  the  wind  and  sea.     Tliis 

j  was  the  cove  which  he  had  noticed.     The  water 

j  was  all  white  with  foam,  but  offered  scarcely  any 

j  resistance  to  him.     He  had  but  to  wade  onward 

i  to  the  shore. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


n 


Tliat  shore  wns  -^t  lut  attained.  He  stag- 
gered up  a  few  paces  .  pon  the  sandy  declivity, 
and  then  fell  down  exhaiui^'*  upon  the  ground. 

He  could  not  move.  ItwasNte;  night  came 
on,  hut  he  lav  where  he  hod  falle.  until  at  last 
bo  fell  iiito  a  u^und  nleep. 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE   MYSTERY   OP   COFFIN   ISLAND. 

When  Brandon  av>aked  on  the  following 
morning  the  sun  was  already  high  in  the  sky. 
He  rose  at  once  and  walked  slowly  up,  with  stifr- 
ened  limbs,  to  a  higher  spot.  His  clothes  already 
were  partly  dry,  but  they  were  uncomfortable 
and  impeded  his  motion.  He  took  off  nearly 
every  thing,  and  laid  them  out  on  the  sand. 
Then  he  examined  his  pistol  and  the  bo.K  con- 
taining cartridges.  This  box  held  some  oil  also, 
with  the  help  of  which  the  pistol  was  r-oon  in 
good  order.  As  the  cartridges  were  encased 
in  copper  they  were  uninjured.  He  then  exam- 
ined a  silver  case  which  was  suspended  round  his 
neck.  It  was  cylindrical  in  shape,  and  the  top 
unscrewed.  On  opening  this  he  took  out  his 
father's  letter  and  the  inclosure,  both  of  which 
were  uninjured.  He  then  rolled  them  up  in  a 
small  compass  and  restored  them  to  their  place. 

He  now  began  to  look  about  him.  Tlie  storm 
had  ceased,  the  waves  had  subsided,  a  slight 
breeze  was  blowing  from  the  sea  which  just  ruf- 
fled the  water  and  tempered  the  heat.  The  isl- 
and on  which  he  had  been  cast  was  low,  flat,  and 
covered  with  a  coarse  grass  which  grew  out  of 
the  sand.  But  the  sand  itself  was  in  many  places 
thrown  up  into  ri.l;,'es,  and  appeared  as  though 
it  was  constantly  shifting  and  changing;  The 
mound  was  not  far  away,  and  at  the  eastern  end 
of  the  island  he  could  see  the  black  outline  of  the 
rock  which  he  had  noticed  from  the  ship.  The 
length  he  had  before  heard  to  be  about  five  miles, 
the  width  appeared  about  one  mile,  and  in  its 
whole  aspect  it  seemed  nothing  better  than  the 
abomination  of  desolation. 

At  the  end  where  he  was  the  island  termina- 
ted in  two  points,  between  which  there  was  the 
cove  where  he  had  found  refuge.  One  of  these 
points  was  distinguished  by  the  mound  already 
mentioned,  which  from  where  he  stood  appeared 
of  an  irregular  oblong  sha-e.  The  other  point 
was  low,  and  descended  gently  into  the  water. 
The  island  itself  appeared  to  be  merely  the  emerg- 
ence of  some  sand-bank  which,  perhaps,  had 
boen  foi-med  by  currents  and  eddies ;  for  here 
tht  currents  of  the  Strait  of  Sunda  encounter 
those  from  the  Southern  and  Indian  oceans,  and 
this  bank  lay  probably  near  their  point  of 
union. 

A  short  survey  showed  him  this.  It  showed 
him  also  that  there  was  but  little  if  any  hope  of 
sustaining  life,  and  that  he  had  escaped  drown- 
ing only  perhaps  to  perish  by  the  more  lingering 
agonies  of  starvation. 

Already  hunger  and  thirst  had  begun  to  be 
felt,  and  how  to  satisfy  these  wants  he  knew  not. 
Still  he  would  not  despair.  Perhaps  the  Java 
might  return  in  search  of  him,  and  his  confine- 
ment would  only  last  for  a  day  or  so. 

He  understood  the  act  of  Cigole  in  a  way 
that  was  satisfactory  to  himself.     He  had  thrown 


him  overboard,  but  had  made  it  appear  like  ai^ 
accident.  As  he  fell  he  had  heard  the  shout 
"  Man  overboard !"  and  was  now  able  to  account 
for  it  in  this  way.  So  a  faint  hope  remained 
that  the  captain  of  ihe  Java  would  not  give  him 
up. 

Still  subsistence  of  some  kind  was  necessary, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  explore 
the  sandy  tract  before  him.  Setting  forth  he 
walked  toward  the  rock  along  the  sea-shore.  On 
one  side  toward  the  north  the  shore  was  shallow 
and  sloped  gently  into  the  water;  but  on  the 
southern  side  it  descended  more  abruptly.  The 
tide  was  out.  A  steep  beach  appeared  here  cov- 
ered with  stones  to  which  myriads  of  shell-fish 
were  attached.  The  sight  of  these  suggested  the 
idea  to  him  that  on  the  opposite  side  there  might 
be  clams  in  the  sand.  He  walked  over  there  in 
search  of  them.  Here  the  slope  was  so  gradual 
that  extensive  flats  were  left  uncovered  by  the 
receding  tide. 

When  a  boy  he  had  been  sometimes  accus- 
tomed to  wander  on  sand  flats  near  his  home, 
and  dig  up  these  clams  in  sport.  Now  his  boy- 
ish experience  became  useful.  Myriads  of  little 
holes  dotted  the  sand,  which  he  knew  to  be  the 
indications  of  these  molluscs,  and  he  at  once  be- 
g-an  to  scoop  in  the  sand  with  his  hands.  In  a 
short  time  he  had  found  enough  to  satisfy  his 
hunger,  and  what  was  better,  he  saw  all  around 
an  unlimited  supply  of  such  food. 

Yet  food  was  not  enough.  Drink  was  equally 
necessary.  The  salt  of  these  shell-fish  aggrava- 
ted the  thirst  that  he  had  already  begun  to  feel, 
and  now  a  fear  came  over  him  that  there  might 
be  no  water.  The  search  seemed  a  hopeless 
one ;  but  he  determined  to  seek  for  it  neverthe- 
less, and  the  only  place  that  seemed  to  promise 
success  was  the  rock  at  the  eastern  end.  To- 
ward this  htj  now  once  more  directed  his  steps. 

The  island  was  all  of  sand  except  the  rocks  on 
the  south  beach  and  the  clifl*  at  tlie  eastern  end. 
Coarse  grass  grew  very  extensively  over  the  sur- 
face, but  the  sand  wvts  fine  and  loose,  and  in 
many  places  thrown  up  into  heaps  of  many  dif- 
ferent shapes.  The  grass  grew  in  tufts  or  in 
spires  and  blades,  thinly  scattered,  and  nowhere 
forming  a  sod.  The  soil  was  difficult  to  walk 
over,  and  Brandon  soupht  the  beach,  where  the 
damp  sand  att'orded  a  firmer  foothold.  In  about 
an  hour  and  a  half  he  reached  the  rock. 

It  was  between  five  hundred  and  (fix  hundred 
feet  in  length,  and  about  fifty  in  height.  There 
was  no  resemblance  to  a  coffin  now  as  Brandon 
approachetl  it,  for  that  likeness  was  only  discern- 
ible at  a  distance.  Its  sides  were  steep  and  pre- 
cipitous. It  was  one  black  solid  mass,  without 
any  outlying  crags,  or  any  fragments  near  it. 
Its  upper  surface  appeared  to  be  level,  and  in 
various  places  it  was  very  easy  to  ascend.  .  Up 
one  of  these  places  Brandon  cUmbed,  and  soon 
stood  on  the  top. 

Near  him  the  summit  was  somewhat  rounded ; 
at  the  farther  end  it  was  flat  and  irregular ;  but 
between  the  two  ends  it  sank  into  a  deep  hollow, 
where  he  saw  that  which  at  once  excited  a  tu- 
mult of  hope  and  fei^r.  It  was  a  pool  of  water 
at  least  fifty  feet  in  diameter,  and  deep  too,  since 
the  sides  of  the  rock  went  down  steeply.  But 
was  it  fresh  or  salt  ?  Was  it  the  accumulation 
from  ^he  showers  of  the  rainy  seasoa  of  the  trop- 
ics, or  was  it  but  the  result  of  the  past  night's 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


•tomt,  which  had  hurled  wave  after  wave  here 
till  the  hollow  was  tilled  ? 

With  haaty  footste]m  he  rushed  toward  the 
margin  of  the  pool,  and  bent  down  to  taste.  For 
a  moment  or  ho,  hy  a  very  natural  feeling,  ho 
beititated,  then,  throwing  off  the  fever  of  sus- 
pense, he  bent  down,  kneeling  on  the  margir., 
till  hia  lips  touched  the  wuter. 

It  was  fresh!  Yes.  it  w»i  from  the  heavens 
above,  and  not  from  the  sea  below.  It  was  the 
fresh  rains  from  the  sky  that  had  filled  this  deep 
pool,  and  not  the  spray  from  the  seii.  Again  and 
again  he  quaffed  the  refreshing  liijuid.  Not  a 
trace  of  the  salt-water  could  be  detected.  It 
was  a  natural  cistern  which  thus  luy  Insfore  him, 
formed  as  though  for  the  reception  of  the  ruin. 
For  the  present,  at  least,  he  was  safe. 

He  had  food  and  drink.  As  long  as  the  rainy 
season  lasted,  and  for  some  time  after,  life  was 
secure.  Life  becomes  doubly  sweet  after  being 
purchased  by  such  efforts  as  those  which  Bran- 
don had  put  fortli,  and  the  thought  that  for  the 
I)resent,  at  least,  he  v.iw  snfo  did  not  fail  to  fill 
iiim  with  the  most  buoyant  hope.  To  him,  in- 
deed, it  seemed  just  then  as  if  nothing  more  could 
be  desired.  He  had  food  and  drink  in  abund- 
once.  In  that  climate  shelter  was  scarcely  need- 
ed.    What  more  could  he  wish  ? 

The  first  day  was  passed  in  exploring  the  rock 
to  see  if  there  was  any  place  which  he  miglit  select 
for  his  abode.  There  were  several  fissures  in  the 
rock  at  the  eastern  end,  and  one  of  these  he  se- 
lected. He  then  went  back  for  his  clothes,  and 
brought  them  to  this  place.    So  the  first  day  went. 

All  the  time  his  eyes  wandered  round  the  ho- 
rizon to  see  if  a  sail  might  be  in  sight.  After 
two  or  three  days,  in  which  nothing  appeared,  he 
ceased  his  constant  watch,  though  still  from  time 
to  time,  by  a  natural  impulse,  he  continued  to 
look.  After  all  he  thought  that  rescue  might 
come.  He  was  somewhat  out  of  the  track  of 
tlie  China  ships,  but  still  not  very  much  so.  An 
adverse  wind  might  bring  a  ship  close  by.  The 
hope  of  this  sustained  him. 

Hut  day  succeeded  to  day  and  week  to  week 
with  no  appearance  of  any  thing  wliatever  on  the 
wide  ocean. 

During  these  long  days  he  passed  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  either  under  the  shelter  of  the 
rock,  where  he  could  best  avoid  the  hot  sun,  or 
when  the  sea-breeze  blew  on  its  summit.  The 
frightful  solitude  offered  to  him  absolutely  no- 
thing which  could  distract  his  thoughts,  or  pre- 
vent him  from  brooding  upon  the  hopelessness 
of  his  situation. 

Brooding  thus,  it  became  his  chief  occupation 
to  read  over  and  over  his  father's  letter  and  the 
inclosure,  and  conjecture  what  might  be  his 
course  of  action  if  he  ever  escaped  from  this 
place.  His  father's  voice  seemed  now  to  sound 
to  him  more  imploringly  than  ever;  and  the 
winds  at  night,  as  they  moaned  round  the  rock, 
seemed  to  roodidate  themselves,  to  form  their 
pounds  to  something  like  a  wild  cry,  and  wail 
forth,  ' '  Come  home !"  Yet  that  home  was  now 
surely  farther  removed  than  ever,  and  the  winds 
seemed  only  to  mock  him.  More  sad  and  more 
despairing  than  Ulysses  on  the  Ogj'gian  shore, 
he  too  wasted  away  with  home-sickness. 

Karii^tTO  ck  yXviei's  aiijjv  voarov  oSvpontvif). 

Fate  thns  far  had  been  against  him,  and  the 


melancholy  recollections  of  his  post  life  conid 

vield  nothing  but  des|)ondency.  Driven  froi  : 
home  when  but  a  l)oy,  he  had  become  an  exile, 
had  wandered  to  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and 
was  just  beginning  to  attniii  some  pro)i))ect  of  a 
fortune  when  this  letter  came.  Rising  up  from 
the  prostration  of  that  blow,  he  had  struggled 
against  fate,  but  only  to  encounter  a  more  over- 
mastering force,  and  this  last  stroke  had  Iwen 
the  worst  of  all.  Could  he  rally  after  this'/ 
Could  he  now  Iiojks  to  escape  ? 

Fate  had  been  against  hiin;  but  yet,  perhaps, 
here,  on  this  lonely  i.shind,  he  might  find  a  tuni- 
ing-|Mjint.  Here  lie  might  find  that  turning  in 
the  long  lane  which  the  jiroverb  speaks  of.  ' '  The 
day  is  darkest  before  the  mom, "  and  perhaps  he 
would  yet  have  Fate  on  his  side. 

But  the  sternest  and  most  courageous  spirit 
can  hardly  maintain  its  fortitude  in  an  utter  and 
unmitigated  solitude.  St.  Simeon  Stylites  could 
do  so,  but  he  felt  that  on  the  top  of  that  pillar 
there  rested  the  eyes  of  the  heavenly  hosts  and 
of  admiring  mankind.  It  is  when  the  conscious- 
ness of  utter  solitude  comes  that  the  soul  sinks. 
When  the  prisoner  thinks  that  he  is  forgotten  by 
the  outside  world,  then  he  loses  that  strength 
which  sustained  him  while  he  believed  himself 
remembered. 

It  was  the  lot  of  Brandon  to  have  this  sense 
of  utter  desolation ;  to  feel  that  in  all  the  world 
there  was  not  one  human  being  that  knew  of  his 
fate ;  and  to  fear  that  the  eye  of  Providpnce  only 
saw  him  with  indifference.  With  bitterness  he 
thought  of  the  last  words  of  his  father's  letter: 
"  If  in  that  other  world  to  which  I  am  going  the 
disembodied  sjiiiit  can  assist  man,  then  be  sure, 
()  my  son,  I  will  assist  you,  and  in  the  crisis 
of  your  fate  I  will  be  near,  if  it  is  only  to  com- 
municate to  your  spirit  what  you  ought  to  do." 

A  melancholy  smile  passed  over  his  face  as  ha 
thought  of  what  seemed  to  him  the  utter  futility 
of  that  promise. 

Now,  as  the  weeks  passed,  his  whole  mode  of 
life  affected  both  mind  and  body.  Yet,  if  it  be 
the  highest  state  of  man  for  the  soul  to  live  by 
itself,  as  Socrates  used  to  teach,  and  sever  itself 
from  bodily  association,  Brandon  surely  had  at- 
tained, without  knowing  it,  a  most  exalted  stage 
of  existence.  Perhaps  it  was  the  period  of  pu- 
rification and  preparation  for  future  work. 

The  weacher  varied  incessantly,  calms  and 
storms  alternating ;  sometimes  all  the  sea  lying 
dull,  listless,  and  glassy  under  the  burning  sky ; 
at  other  times  both  sea  and  sky  convulsed  with 
the  war  of  elements. 

At  last  there  came  one  storm  so  tremendous 
that  it  exceeded  all  that  Brandon  had  ever  seen 
any  where. 

The  wind  gathered  itself  up  from  the  south- 
east, and  for  a  whole  day  the  forces  df  the  tem- 
pest collected  themselves,  till  at  last  they  burst 
in  fury  upon  the  island.  In  sustained  violence 
and  in  the  frenzy  of  its  assault  it  far  surpassed 
that  first  storm.  Before  sundown  the  storm  was 
at  its  height,  and,  though  yet  day,  the  clouds 
were  so  dense  and  so  black  that  it  became  like 
night.  Night  came  on,  and  the  storm,  and  roar, 
and  darkness  increased  steadily  every  hour.  So 
intense  was  the  darkness  that  the  hand,  when 
held  close  by  the  face,  could  not  be  distingiushed. 
So  resistless  was  the  force  of  the  wind  that  Bran- 
doi:,  on  looking  out  to  sea,  had  to  cling  to  the 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


n 


rock  to  prevent  himself  from  lieint;  blown  awav. 
A  denMe  ruin  of  Mpray  streamed  through  the 
air,  aiul  the  §urf,  rolling  up,  flung  iu  crcat  all 
arroHit  the  island.  Brandon  roiild  hear  l)«neath 
him,  amidst  Home  of  the  i)au.'<ei*  of  the  storm,  the 
hi.-ixingnnd  hubhlingof  foaming  waters,  ax  though 
the  whole  inland,  Kubmerged  by  the  waveit,  wim 
slowly  settling  down  into  the  depths  of  the  mean. 

Brandon'ri  place  of  shelter  was  sufficiently  el- 
evated to  be  out  of  the  reach  of  the  waves  that 
might  rush  u]K>n  the  land,  and  on  the  lee-side  of 
the  rock,  so  that  he  was  sufficiently  protected. 
Sand,  which  he  hud  earned  up,  formed  his  lied. 
In  this  place,  which  was  more  like  the  lair  of  a 
wild  beast  than  the  alxMle  of  a  human  l>eing,  he 
had  to  live.  Moiiy  wakeful  nights  he  had  pa.tsed 
there,  but  never  had  he  known  such  a  night  as 
thi.s. 

There  was  a  frenzy  about  this  hurricane  that 
would  have  been  inconceivable  if  he  had  not 
witnessed  it.  His  senses,  refined  and  rendered 
acute  by  long  vigils  and  slender  diet,  seemed  to 
detect  audible  words  in  the  voice  of  the  storm, 
looking  out  through  the  gloom  his  sight  seemed 
to  discern  8hai>es  flitting  by  like  lightning,  as 
though  the  fubled  8])irits  of  the  storm  had  gath- 
ere<l  here. 

It  needed  all  the  robust  courage  of  his  strong 
nature  to  sustain  himself  in  the  presence  of  the 
wild  fancies  that  now  came  rushing  and  throng- 
ing before  his  mind.  The  words  of  his  father 
sounded  in  his  ears ;  he  thought  he  heard  them 
spoken  from  the  air;  he  thought  he  saw  an 
aged  spectral  face,  wan  with  suttering  and  grief, 
in  front  of  his  cave.  He  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hands,  and  sought  to  reason  down  his  super- 
stitious feeling.  In  vain.  Words  rang  in  his 
ears,  muffled  words,  as  though  muttered  in  the 
storm,  and  bis  mind,  which  had  brooded  so 
long  over  his  father's  letter,  now  gave  shape  to 
the  noise  of  winds  and  waves. 

" — In  the  crisis  of  your  fate  I  will  be  near." 

"  I  shall  go  mad !"  cried  Brandon,  aloud,  and 
he  started  to  his  feet. 

But  the  storm  went  on  with  its  fury,  and  still 
his  eyes  saw  shapes,  and  his  ears  heard  fantastic 
sounds.  80  the  night  passed  until  at  last  the 
storm  had  exhausted  itself.  Then  Brandon  sank 
down  and  slept  far  on  into  the  day. 

When  he  awaked  again  the  storm  had  sub- 
sided. The  sea  was  still  boisterous,  and  a  fresh 
breeze  blew  which  he  inhaled  with  pleasure. 
After  obtaining  some  shell-fish,  and  satisfying 
his  appetite,  he  went  to  the  summit  of  the  rock 
for  water,  and  then  stood  looking  out  at  sea. 

His  eye  swept  the  whole  circuit  of  the  horizon 
without  seeing  any  thing,  until  at  length  he  turned 
to  look  in  a  westwardly  direction  where  the  isl- 
and spread  out  before  him.  Here  an  amazing 
sight  met  his  eyes. 

The  mound  at  the  other  end  had  become  com- 
pletely and  marvelously  changed.  On  the  pre- 
vious day  it  had  preserved  its  usual  shape,  but 
now  it  was  no  longer  smoothly  rounded.  On  the 
contrary  it  was  irregular,  the  northern  end  be- 
ing still  a  sort  of  hillock,  but  the  middle  and 
southern  end  was  flat  on  the  surface  and  dark  in 
color.  From  the  distance  at  which  he  stood  it  i 
looked  like  a  rock,  around  which  the  sand  had  I 
accimiulated,  but  which  had  been  uncovered  by 
the  violent  storm  of  the  preceding  night. 

At  that  distance  it  appeared  like  a  rock,  but 


there  was  something  in  its  thapa  and  in  iti  po- 
sition which  made  it  hnik  like  a  ship  which 
had  been  cast  ashore.  The  idea  was  a  startling 
one,  and  he  at  once  dismissed  it  as  absurd  But 
the  more  he  looked  the  closer  the  resemblance 
grew  until  nt  last,  unable  to  endure  this  itus- 
I)en*c,  he  hurried  off  in  that  direction. 

During  all  the  time  that  he  had  l>een  on  tho 
island  he  had  never  Iwen  close  to  the  mound. 
He  had  remained  for  tho  most  part  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  riH'k,  and  had  never  thougirt  that 
a  barren  sand  hillock  was  wofthy  of  a  vii^it. 
But  now  it  ap|)eared  a  veiy  different  object  in  hit 
eyes. 

He  walked  on  over  half  the  intervening  dis- 
tance, and  now  the  resemblance  instead  of  fading 
out,  as  he  anticiuuted,  grew  more  close.  It  was 
still  ttH)  far  to  !)«  hoen  very  distinctly ;  but  there, 
even  from  that  distance,  he  saw  the  unmistaka- 
ble outline  of  a  ship's  hull. 

There  was  now  scarcely  any  doubt  about  this. 
There  it  lay.  Every  step  only  made  it  more  vis- 
ible. He  walked  more  quickly  onward,  filled 
with  wonder,  and  marveling  by  what  strange 
chance  this  vessel  could  have  reached  its  present 
position. 

There  it  lay.  It  could  not  by  any  possibility 
have  been  cast  ashore  on  the  preceding  night. 
The  mightiest  billows  that  ever  rose  from  ocean 
could  never  have  lifted  a  ship  so  far  upon  the 
shore.  To  him  it  was  certain  that  it  must  have 
been  there  for  a  long  time,  and  that  the  sand 
had  been  heaped  around  it  by  successive  storms. 

Ashe  walked  nearer  he  regarded  more  closely 
the  formation  of  this  western  end.  He  saw  the 
low  northern  point,  and  then  the  cove  where  he 
had  escaped  from  the  sea.  He  noticed  that  the 
southern  point  where  the  mound  was  appeared 
to  be  a  sort  of  peninsula,  and  the  theory  sug- 
gested itself  to  him  by  which  he  could  account 
for  this  wonder.  This  ship,  he  saw,  must  have 
been  wrecked  at  some  time  long  before  upon  this 
island.  As  the  shore  was  shallow  it  bad  run 
aground  and  stuck  fast  in  the  sand.  But  suc- 
cessive storms  had  continued  to  beat  upon  it  un- 
til the  moving  sands  which  the  waters  were  con- 
stantly driving  about  had  gathered  all  around  it 
higher  and  higher.  At  last,  in  the  course  of 
time,  a  vast  accumulation  had  gathered  about 
this  obstacle  till  a  new  bank  had  been  formed 
and  joined  to  the  island ;  and  the  winds  had  lent 
their  aid,  heaping  up  the  loose  sand  on  high  till 
all  the  ship  was  covered.  But  last  night's  storm 
had  to  some  extent  undone  the  work,  and  now 
the  wreck  was  once  more  exposed. 

Brandon  was  happy  in  his  conjecture  and  right 
in  his  theory.  All  who  know  any  thing  about 
the  construction  and  nattu'e  of  sand  islands  such 
as  this  are  aware  that  the  winds  and  waters  work 
perpetual  changes.  The  best  known  example  of 
this  is  the  far-famed  Sable  Island,  which  lies  off' 
the  coast  of  Nova  Scotia,  in  the  direct  track  of 
vessels  crossing  the  Atlantic  between  England 
and  the  United  States.  Here  there  is  repeated 
on  a  far  larger  scale  the  work  which  Brandon 
saw  on  Coffin  Island.  Sable  Island  is  twenty 
miles  long  and  about  one  in  width — the  crest  of 
a  vast  heap  of  sand  which  rises  out  of  the  ocean's 
bed.  Here  the  wildest  storms  in  the  world  rage 
uncontrolled,  and  the  keeper^  of  the  light-house 
have  but  little  shelter.  Not  long  ago  an  enormotis 
flag-staff"  was  torn  from  out  its  place  and  hurled 


2S 


CORD  AND  CREESK 


'•CHEAT   HKAVENS!"    CBIED   BRANDON,   STARTING  HACK — "  THE   'viSHSUl'" 


away  into  the  sea.  in  fierce  storms  the  spray 
drives  all  across,  and  it  is  impossible  to  venture 
out.  But  most  of  all.  Sable  Island  is  famous 
for  the  melancholy  wrecks  that  have  taken  place 
there.  Often  vessels  that  have  the  bad  fortune 
to  nin  aground  are  broken  up,  but  sometimes  the 
sand  gathers  about  them  and  covers  them  up. 
'I'here  are  numerous  mounds  here  which  are 
known  to  conceal  wrecked  ships.  Some  of  these 
have  been  opened,  and  the  wreck  beneath  has 
been  brought  to  view.  Sometimes  also  after  a 
severe  gale  these  sandy  mounds  are  torn  away 
and  the  buried  vessels  are  exposed. 

Far  away  in  Australia  Brandon  had  heard  of 
Sable  Island  from  different  sea  captains  who  had 


.-jen  in  the  Atlantic  trade.  The  stories  which 
these  men  had  to  tell  were  all  largely  tinged  with 
the  supernatural.  One  in  particular  who  had 
been  wrecked  there,  and  had  taken  refuge  for  the 
night  in  a  hut  built  by  the  British  Government 
for  wrecked  sailors,  told  some  wild  storj-  about 
the  apparition  of  a  negro  who  waked  him  up  at 
dead  of  night  and  nearlj'  killed  him  with  horror. 

With  all  these  thoughts  in  his  mind  Brandon 
approached  the  wreck  and  at  last  stocKl  close  be- 
side it. 

It  had  been  long  buried.  The  hull  was  about 
two-thirds  uncovered.  A  vast  heap  of  sand  still 
dung  to  the  bow,  but  the  stern  stood  out  full  in 
view.     Although  it  must  have  been  there  for  a 


COKD  AND  CREESE. 


29 


long  time  the  planks  were  iitill  Mund,  for  thoy 
tteumed  to  have  l>een  preserved  from  decay  by 
the  sand.  All  the  ralkin);,  however,  had  be- 
come louse,  and  the  seams  gitfied  widely.  There 
were  no  musts,  but  the  lower  part  of  the  shrouds 
still  rcmuined,  showing  that  (he  vessel  was  a 
\ttig.  So  deejily  was  it  buried  in  the  sand,  that 
lirandon,  from  where  he  stood,  could  look  over 
the  whole  deck,  he  himself  l>eing  almost  on  a 
level  with  the  deck.  The  musts  appeared  to  have 
been  chopped  away.  The  hatchways  were  gone. 
The  hold  api)eared  to  be  filled  with  sand,  but 
there  mny  have  been  only  a  layer  of  sand  con- 
cciiling  something  beneath.  I'nrt  of  the  plunk- 
ing of  the  deck  us  well  as  most  of  the  taflruil  on 
the  other  side  hud  l)cen  carried  away.  Astern 
there  was  a  quarter-deck.  There  was  no  sky- 
light, but  only  dead-lights  set  on  the  deck.  The 
door  of  the  cabin  still  remained  and  was  shut 
tight.    . 

All  these  things  nrandon  took  in  at  a  glance. 
A  |>ensive  melancholy  came  over  him,  and  a  feel- 
ing of  pity  for  the  inanimate  ship  as  though  she 
were  capable  of  feeling.  By  a  natiind  curiosity 
lie  walked  around  to  the  stern  to  see  if  he  coulil 
reud  her  name. 

The  stem  was  buried  deep  in  tho  sand.  He 
had  to  kneel  to  read  it.  On  the  side  nertrest 
him  the  letters  were  obliterated,  but  he  ?aw  some 
remaining  on  the  opposite  side.  He  went  over 
there  and  knelt  down.  There  were  four  letters 
still  legible  and  part  of  a  fifth.  These  were  the 
letters : 

VISH^ 

'•Great  Heavens!'  cried  Brandon,  starting 
back— "the  i'Mnu!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THB   DWELLER    IN   THE    SUNKEN    SHIP. 

After  a  moment  of  horror  Brandon  walked 
away  for  a  short  distance,  and  then  turning  he 
looked  fixedly  at  the  wreck  for  a  long  time. 

Could  this  be  indeed  the  ship — the  Vishnu  f  By 
what  marvelous  coincidence  had  he  thus  fallen 
upon  it?  It  was  in  1828  that  the  Vishnu  sailed 
from  Calcutta  for  Manilla.  Was  it  possible  for 
this  vessel  to  be  preserved  so  long  ?  And  if  so, 
how  did  it  get  here  ? 

Yet  why  not  ?  As  to  its  preservation  that  was 
no  matter  in  itself  for  wonder.  East  Indian  ves- 
sels are  sometimes  built  of  mahogany,  or  other 
woods  which  lust  for  immense  periods.  Anv 
wood  .  ■  -ht  endure  for  eighteen  years  if  covered 
up  by  sa  '  Besides,  this  vessel  he  recollected 
had  been  .  lei  with  staves  and  bo.\  shocks,  with 
"''•:r  woou  materials  which  would  keep  it 
t-  It  m      t  have  drifted  about  these  seas 

till  tnt  •'•onf  bore  it  here.  After  all  it  was 
not  so  wonuv.  hat  this  should  be  the  Vishnu 
of  Colonel  Desj      1. 

The  true  mj..  el  was  that  he  himself  should 
have  been  .cast  ashore  here  on  the  same  place 
where  this  ship  was. 

He  stood  for  a  long  time  not  caring  to  enter. 
His  strength  had  been  worn  down  by  the  priva- 
tions of  his  island  life ;  his  nerves,  "usually  like 
steel,  were  becoming  unstrung;  his  mind  had 
fallen  into  a  morbid  state,  and  was  a  prey  to  a 


thousand  ttninge  fancie*.  'I'lie  duMd  iloont  of 
the  cabin  stood  there  Itefore  him,  and  h«  l)egaii 
to  imagine  that  some  fri(,-htful  s))ectttcle  was  cun- 
ceale«l  within. 

I'erhaps  he  would  find  some  tnu-es  of  that 
tragedy  of  which  be  hud  heard,  ^ince  tho  ship 
had  come  here,  and  he  hod  l>cen  cast  usiiore  to 
meet  it,  there  was  nothing  which  he  miglu  not 
anticipate. 

A  strange  horror  came  over  him  as  he  looked 
at  the  cabin.  But  he  was  not  the  man  to  yield 
tu  idle  fimcies.  Taking  a  long  breath  he  walke<l 
across  the  island,  and  then  buck  again.  By  th.it 
time  he  had  completely  recovered,  and  the  only 
feeling  now  remaining  was  one  of  intense  cun- 
osity. 

This  time  he  went  up  without  hesitation,  and 
c-limbed  on  board  the  vessel.  The  stmd  was 
hea|)ed  up  astern,  the  masts  gone,  and  the  hatch- 
ways torn  oft,  as  has  been  said.  The  wind  which 
had  blown  the  sand  away  had  swept  tho  decks  w» 
clean  as  though  they  had  been  bolv-stoned.  Not 
a  ro|)e  or  a  spar  or  any  movable  of  any  kind 
cotdd  be  seen. 

He  walked  aft.  He  tried  the  cabin  door,  it 
was  wedged  fust  as  though  jtart  of  the  front. 
Finding  it  immovable  he  stepi)ed  buck  and  kicked 
at  it  vigorously.  A  few  sturdy  kicks  started  the 
panel.  It  gradually  yielded  and  sank  in.  Then 
the  other  panel  followed.  He  could  now  look  in 
and  see  thai  the  sand  lay  inside  to  the  de]>th  of 
a  foot.  As  yet,  however,  he  could  not  enter. 
There  was  nothing  else  to  do  except  to  kick  at  it 
till  it  was  all  knocked  away,  and  this  after  somo 
patient  labor  was  accomi)lished. 

He  entered.  The  cabin  was  about  twelve  feet 
square,  lighted  by  dead-lights  in  the  deck  above. 
On  each  side  we.i  two  state-rooms,  probably  in- 
tended for  the  ship's  oflScers.  The  doors  we.e 
all  open.  The  sand  had  drifted  in  here  and 
covered  the  floor  and  the  berths.  'I'he  floor  of 
the  cabin  was  covered  with  sand  to  the  depth  of 
a  foot.  There  wns  no  large  opening  through 
which  it  could  enter ;  but  it  had  probably  pene- 
trated through  the  cracks  of  the  doorway  in  a 
fine,  impalpable  dust,  and  had  covered  every 
available  surface  within. 

In  the  centre  of  the  cabin  was  a  table,  secured 
to  the  floor,  as  ships'  tables  alwoys  are ;  and  im- 
mediately over  it  hung  the  barometer  which  was 
now  all  corroded  and  coversd  with  mould  and 
rust.  A  half  dozen  stools  were  around,  some 
lying  on  their  sides,  some  upside  down,  and  one 
standing  upright.  The  door  by  which  he  had 
entered  was  at  one  side,  on  the  other  side  was 
another,  and  between  the  two  stood  a  sofa,  the 
shape  of  which  was  jilainly  discernible  under  the 
sand.  Over  this  was  a  clock,  which  had  ticked 
it&  last  tick. 

On  some  racks  over  the  closet  there  were  a  few 
guns  and  swords,  intended,  perhaps,  for  the  de- 
fensive armament  of  the  brig,  but  all  in  the  la.st 
stage  of  rust  and  of  decay.  Brandon  took  one 
or  two  down,  but  they  broke  with  their  own 
weight. 

The  sand  seemed  to  have  drifted  more  deeply 
into  the  state-rooms,  for  while  its  depth  in  the 
cabin  was  only  a  foot,  in  these  the  depth  was 
nearly  two  feet.  Some  of  the  l)etlding  projected 
from  the  l)ertlis,  but  it  was  a  mass  of  mould  and 
crumbled  at  the  touch. 

Brandon  went  into  each  of  these  rooms  iu  sac- 


8U 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


cession,  and  brnshed  ont  the  heavy,  wet  sand  from 
the  berths.  The  rotten  quilts  and  blankets  fell 
with  the  sand  in  matted  masses  to  the  floor.  In 
each  room  was  a  seaman's  chest.  Two  of  these 
were  covered  deeply ;  the  other  two  bL^  lightly : 
the  latter  were  unlocked,  and  he  opened  the  Uds. 
Only  some  old  clothes  appeared,  hov/ever,  and 
these  in  the  same  stage  of  decay  as  every  thing 
else.  In  one  of  them  was  a  book,  or  rather 
■vhat  had  once  been  a  book,  but  now  the  leaves 
were  all  stuck  together,  and  formed  one  lump 
of  slime  and  mould.  In  spite  of  his  most  care- 
ful search  he  had  thus  far  found  nothing  what- 
ever which  could  be  of  the  slightest  benefit  to 
him  in  his  solitude  and  necessity. 

There  were  still  two  rooms  which  he  had  not 
yet  examined.  These  were  at  the  end  of  the 
cabin,  at  the  stern  of  the  ship,  each  taking  up 
one  half  of  the  width.  The  sand  had  drifted  in 
here  to  about  the  same  depth  as  in  the  side- 
rooms.  He  entered  first  the  one  nearest  him, 
which  was  on  the  right  side  of  the  ship.  This 
room  was  about  ten  feet  long,  extending  from 
the  middle  of  the  ship  to  the  side,  and  about  six 
feet  wide.  A  telescops  was  the  first  thing  which 
attracted  his  attention.  It  lay  in  a  rack  near 
the  doorway.  He  took  it  down,  but  it  tell  apart 
at  once,  being  completely  corroded.  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room  there  was  a  compass,  which  hung 
from  the  ceiling.  But  the  iron  pivot  had  rusted, 
and  the  plate  had  fallen  down.  Some  more  gui.s 
and  swords  were  here,  but  all  rusted  like  the 
others.  There  was  a  table  at  the  wall  by  the 
stem,  covered  with  sand.  An  arm-chair  stood 
close  by  it,  and  opposite  this  was  a  couch.  At 
the  end  of  this  room  was  a  berth  which  had  the 
same  appearance  as  the  other  berths  in  the  other 
rooms.  The  quilts  and  mattresses  as  he  felt 
them  beneath  the  damp  sand  were  equally  de- 
cayed. Too  long  h;id  the  ship  been  exposed  to 
the  ravages  of  time,  and  Brandon  saw  that  to 
seek  for  any  thing  hsre  which  could  be  of  the 
slightest  service  to  himself  was  in  the  highest 
degree  useless. 

This  last  room  seemed  to  him  as  though  it 
might  have  been  the  captain's.  That  ca[)tain 
was  CJgole,  the  very  man  who  had  flung  him 
overboard.  He  had  unconsciously  by  so  doing 
sent  him  to  the  scene  of  his  early  crime.  Was 
this  visit  to  be  all  in  vain  ?  Thus  far  it  seemed  so. 
But  might  there  not  yet  be  something  beneath 
this  sand  which  might  satisfy  him  in  his  search  ? 

There  still  remained  another  room.  Might 
there  not  be  something  there  ? 

Brandon  went  back  into  the  cabin  and  stood 
looking  at  the  open  doonvay  of  that  other  room. 

He  hesitated.  Why?  Perhaps  it  was  the 
thought  that  here  was  his  last  chance,  that  here 
his  exploration  must  end,  and  if  nothing  came 
of  it  then  all  this  adventure  would  be  in  vain. 
Then  the  fantastic  hopes  and  fears  which  by  turns 
had  agitated  him  would  prove  to  have  been  ab- 
surd, and  he,  instead  of  being  sent  by  Fate  as 
the  minister  of  vengeance,  would  be  only  the 
commonplace  victim  of  an  everyday  accident. 

Perhaps  it  was  some  instinct  within  him  that 
made  known  to  his  mind  what  awaited  him  there. 
For  now  as  he  stood  that  old  horror  came  upon 
him  full  and  strong.  Weakness  and  e.xcitement 
made  his  heart  beat  and  his  ears  ring.  Now  his 
fancy  became  wild,  and  he  recalled  with  painful 
vividness  his  father's  words  : 


"  In  the  crisis  of  your  fate  I  will  be  near." 

The  horrors  of  the  past  night  recurred.  The 
air  of  the  cabin  was  close  and  suffocating.  There 
seemed  in  that  dark  room  before  him  some  dread 
Presence,  he  knew  not  what ;  some  Being,  who 
had  uncovered  this  his  abode  and  enticed  him 
here. 

He  found  himself  rapidly  falling  into  that  state 
in  which  he  would  not  have  been  able  either  to 
advance  or  retreat.  One  overmastering  horror 
seized  him.  Twice  his  spirit  sought  to  over- 
come the  faintness  and  weakness  of  the  flesh. 
Twice  he  stepped  resolutely  forward ;  but  each 
time  he  faltered  and  recoiled. 

Here  was  no  place  for  him  to  summon  up  his 
strength.  He  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  turned 
abruptly  and  rushed  out  from  the  damp,  gloomy 
pla'-e  into  the  warm,  bright  sunshine  and  the  free 
air  of  heaven. 

The  air  was  bright,  the  wind  blew  fregh.  He 
drank  in  great  draughts  of  that  delicious  breeze, 
and  the  salt  sea  seemed  to  be  inhaled  at  each 
breath. 

The  sun  shone  brilliantly.  The  sea  rolled  afar 
and  all  around,  and  sparkled  before  him  under 
the  sun's  rays  with  that  infinite  laughter,  that 
avripiOiiov  ykXaana  of  which  JEschylus  spoke  in 
his  deep  love  of  the  salt  sea.  Speaking  i)aren- 
thetically,  it  may  be  said  that  the  only  ones  from 
among  articulate  speaking  men  wlio  have  found 
fitting  epithets  for  the  sea  are  the  old  Greek,  the 
Scandinavian,  and  the  Englishman. 

Brandon  drew  in  new  strength  and  life  with 
every  breath,  till  at  last  he  began  to  think  once 
more  of  returning. 

But  even  yet  he  feared  that  when  l:e  entered 
that  cabin  the  spell  would  be  on  l.im.  The 
thought  of  attempting  it  was  intolerable.  Yet 
what  was  to  be  done  ?  To  remain  unsatisfied 
was  equally  intolerable.  To  go  back  to  hib  rock 
was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

But  an  effort  must  be  made  to  get  rid  of  this 
womanly  fear ;  why  should  he  yield  to  this  ?  Sure- 
ly there  were  other  thoughts  which  he  might  call 
to  his  mind.  There  came  over  him  the  memory 
of  that  villain  who  had  cast  him  here,  who  now 
was  exulting  in  his  fancied  success  and  bearing 
back  to  his  master  tlie  rews.  There  came  to 
him  the  thought  of  his  father,  and  his  wrongs, 
and  his  woe.  There  came  to  his  memory  his 
father's  dying  words  summoning  him  to  venge- 
ance. There  came  to  him  the  thought  of  those 
who  yet  lived  and  suffered  in  England,  at  the 
mercy  of  a  pitiless  enemy.  Should  he  falter  at 
a  superstitious  fancy,  he — who,  if  he  lived,  had 
so  great  a  purpose  ? 

All  superstitious  fancy  laded  away.  The  thirst 
for  revenge,  the  sense  of  intolerable  wrong  arose. 
Fear  and  horror  died  out  utterly,  destroyed  by 
Vengeance. 

"The  Pre?'ince,  then,  is  my  ally,"  he  mur- 
mured.    "  I  will  go  and  face  It." 

And  he  walked  resolutely,  with  a  firm  step, 
back  into  the  cabin. 

Yet  even  then  it  needed  all  the  new-bom  res- 
olution which  he  had  summoned  up,  and  nil  the 
thought  of  his  wrong,  to  sustain  him  as  he  en- 
tered that  inner  room.  Even  then  a  shai'fi  thrill 
passed  through  him,  and  bodily  weakness  could 
only  be  sustained  by  the  strong,  resolute,  stub- 
bom  soul. 

The  room  was  about  the  size  of  the  captain's. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


81 


'THURE   SEEMED    A   GHASTLY    COMICALITY   IN    SUCH   /    THING    A8    THIS,      ETC. 


There  was  a  table  agijinst  the  side,  which  looked 
like  a  leaf  which  could  hang  down  in  case  of  ne- 
cessity. A  trunk  stood  opposite  the  door,  with 
the  open  lid  projecting  upward  out  of  a  mass  of 
sand.  Upon  the  wall  there  hung  the  collar  of  a 
coat  and  part  of  the  shoulders,  the  rest  having 
a])parently  fallen  awav  from  decay.  The  color 
of  the  co:;t  could  still  be  distinguished  ;  it  was 
red,  and  tlie  epaulets  showed  that  it  had  belr.nged 
to  a  Hritish  oftii-er. 

Brandon  on  entering  took  m  all  these  detaris 
at  a  glance,  and  then  his  eyes  were  drawn  to  the 
berth  at  the  end  of  tlie  room,  where  that  Thing 
lay  whose  ])resence  he  had  felt  and  feared,  and 
which  he  knew  by  an  internal  conviction  must 
be  here. 

There  It  awaited  nim.  on  the  berth.  Sand 
had  covered  it,  like  a  coverlet,  up  to  the  neck, 
*hile  beyond  that  protruded  the  head.  It 
was  turned  toward  him  ;  a  bony,  skeleton  head, 
whose  hollow  cavities  seemed  not  altogether  va- 
cancy but  rather  dark  eyes  which  looked  gloom- 
ily at  biin  dark  eyes  fixed,  motionless ;  which 
had  HcHMi  thus  fixed  through  the  long  years, 
watcliinif  wi^tfi.lly  for  him,  expecting  his  en- 
trance through  that  doorway.    And  this  was  the 


Being  who  nad  assisted  him  to  the  shore,  and 
who  had  thrown  off  the  covering  of  sand  with 
which  he  had  concealed  himself,  so  as  to  bring 
him  here  before  him  Brandon  stood  motion- 
less, mute.  The  face  was  turned  toward  iiim — 
that  face  which  is  at  once  human  and  yet  most 
frightful,  since  it  is  the  face  of  Death — the  face 
of  a  skeleton.  The  jaws  had  fallen  apart,  and 
that  fearful  grin  which  is  fixed  on  the  flesliless 
face  here  seemed  like  an  effort  at  a  smile  of  wel- 
come. 

The  hair  still  clung  to  that  head,  and  hung 
down  over  the  lleshless  forehead,  giving  it  moie 
the  appearance  of  Death  in  life,  and  lending  a 
new  horror  to  that  which  already  penaded  this 
Dweller  in  the  Ship. 

"The  nightmare  Life-hi-Death  was  he. 
That  thicks  men'?  Wood  with  cold." 

Brandon  stood  while  his  blood  ran  chill,  and 
his  breath  came  fast. 

If  that  Form  had  suddenly  thrown  oflF  its 
sandy  coverlet  and  risen  to  his  feet,  and  advanced 
with  extended  hand  to  meet  him.  he  would  not 
have  been  surprised,  nor  would  he  have  been  one 
whit  more  horror-stricken. 

Brandon  stood  fixed.     He  could  not  move. 


83 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


He  was  like  one  in  a  nightmare.  His  limbs 
seemed  rigid.  A  spell  was  upon  him.  His 
eyes  seemed  to  fasten  themselves  on  the  hollow 
cavities  of  the  Form  before  him.  But  under 
that  tremendous  pressure  he  did  not  altogether 
sink.  Slowly  his  spirit  rose ;  a  thought  of  flight 
came,  but  it  was  instantly  rejected.  The  next 
moment  he  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I'm  an  in- 
fernal fool  and  coward,"  he  muttered.  He  took 
three  steps  forward,  and  stood  beside  the^igure. 
He  laid  his  hand  firmly  upon  the  head ;  the  hair 
fell  off  at  his  touch.  "Poor  devil,"  said  he, 
"I'll  bury  your  bones  at  any  rate."  The  spell 
was  broken,  and  Brandon  was  himself  again. 

Once  more  Brandon  walked  out  into  the  open 
air,  but  this  time  there  was  not  a  vestige  of  hor- 
ror left.  He  had  encounteied  what  he  dreaded, 
and  it  was  now  in  bis  eyes  only  a  mass  ot  bones. 
Yet  there  was  much  to  think  of,  and  the  struggle 
which  had  raged  within  him  had  exhausted  him. 

The  sea-breeze  played  about  him  and  soon 
restored  his  strength.  What  next  to  do  was  the 
question,  and  after  some  deliberation  he  decided 
at  once  to  remove  the  skekton  and  bury  it. 

A  flat  board  which  had  served  as  a  shelf  sup- 
plied him  with  an  easy  way  of  turning  up  the 
sand.  Occupation  was  pleasant,  and  in  an  hour 
or  two  he  had  scooped  out  a  place  large  enough 
for  the  purpose  which  h»  had  in  view.  He  then 
went  back  into  the  inner  cabin. 

Taking  his  board  he  removed  carefully  the 
sand  which  had  covered  the  skeleton.  The 
clothes  came  away  with  it.  As  he  moved  his 
board  along  it  struck  something  hard.  He 
could  not  see  in  that  -Vim  light  what  it  was,  so 
he  read  ed  down  his  hand  and  grasped  it. 

It  was  something  which  the  fingers  of  the 
skeleton  also  encircled,  for  his  own  hand  as  he 
grasped  it  touched  tlwse  fingers.  Drawing  it 
tbrth  he  perceived  that  it  was  a  common  junk 
bottle  tightly  corked. 

There  seemed  a  gh.istly  comicality  in  such  a 
thing  as  this,  that  this  lately  dreaded  Being 
should  be  nothing  more  than  a  common  skele- 
ton, and  that  he  should  be  discovered  in  this 
bed  of  horror  doing  nothing  more  dignified  than 
clutching  a  junk  bottle  like  a  sleeping  drunkard. 
Brandon  smiled  faintly  at  the  idea;  and  then 
thinking  that,  if  the  liquor  weie  good,  it  at 
least  would  be  welconve  to  him  in  his  present 
situation.  He  walked  out  ni)oii  the  deck,  in- 
tending to  open  it  and  test  its  contents.  So  he 
«at  down,  and,  taking  his  knife,  he  pushed  the 
cork  in.  Then  he  smelled  tlie  supposed  liquor  to 
see  what  it  might  be.  There  was  only  a  musty 
odor.  He  looked  in.  The  bottle  appeared  to 
be  filled  with  paper.  Then  the  whole  truth 
flashed  upon  his  mind.  He  struck  the  bottle 
upon  the  deck.  It  broke  to  atoms,  and  there 
lay  a  scroll  of  paper  covered  with  writing. 

He  seized  it  eagerly,  and  was  about  opening 
it  to  read  what  was  written  when  he  noticed 
something  else  that  also  had  fallen  from  the 
bottle. 

It  was  a  cord  about  two  yards  in  length,  made 
of  the  entrail  of  some  animal,  and  still  as  strong 
and  as  flexible  as  v.'hen  it  was  first  made.  He 
took  it  up  carefully,  wondering  why  such  a  thing 
as  this  should  have  been  so  carefully  sealed  up 
and  preserved  when  so  many  other  things  had 
been  neglected. 

The  cord,  on  a  close  examination,  presented 


nothing  very  remarkable  except  the  fact  that, 
though  very  thin,  it  appeared  to  have  been  not 
twisted  but  plaited  in  a  very  peculiar  manner 
out  of  many  fine  strands.  The  intention  had 
evidently  been  to  give  to  it  the  utmost  possible 
strength  together  with  the  smallest  size.  Bran- 
don had  heard  of  cords  used  by  Malays  and 
Hindus  for  assassination,  and  this  seemed  like 
the  description  which  he  had  read  of  them. 

At  one  end  of  the  cord  was  a  piece  of  bronze 
about  the  size  of  a  common  marble,  to  which 
the  cord  was  attached  by  a  most  peculiar  knot. 
The  bronze  itself  was  intended  to  represent  the 
head  of  some  Hindu  idol,  the  grotesque  ferocity 
of  its  features,  and  the  hideous  grimace  of  the 
mouth  being  exactly  like  what  one  may  see  in 
the  images  of  Mother  Kali  or  Bowhani. 

At  once  the  cord  associated  itself  in  his  mind 
with  the  horrors  which  he  had  heard  of  as  hav- 
ing been  perpetrated  in  the  names  of  these  fright- 
ful deities,  and  it  seemed  now  to  be  more  than  a 
common  one.  He  carefully  wound  it  up,  placed 
it  in  his  pocket,  and  prepared  to  examine  the 
manuscript. 

The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  the  sea- 
breeze  still  blew  freshly,  while  Brandon,  opening 
the  manuscript,  began  to  read. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

MANUSCRIPT   FOUND    IN   A   BOTTLE. 
"  BbIG  '  VlSUNir,'  APEIFT  IN  THE  CuiNEBB  SeA. 

July  10,  1828. 

"Whoever  finds  this  let  him  know  that  I, 
Lionel  Despard,  Colonel  of  H.  M.  3"th  Regi- 
ment, have  been  the  victim  of  a  foul  conspiracy 
performed  against  me  by  the  captain  and  crew 
of  the  brig  Vishnu,  and  especially  by  my  servant, 
John  Potts. 

"Expecting  at  any  time  to  perish,  adrift  help- 
lessly, at  the  mercy  of  winds  and  waves,  I  sit 
down  now  before  I  die,  to  write  all  the  circum- 
stances of  this  affair.  I  will  inclose  the  manu- 
script in  a  bottle  and  fling  it  into  the  sea,  trust- 
ing in  God  that  he  may  cause  it  to  be  borne  to 
those  who  maj'  be  enabled  to  read  my  words,  so 
that  they  may  know  my  fate  and  bring  the  guilty 
to  justice.  Whoever  finds  this  let  him,  if  possi- 
ble, have  it  sent  to  my  friend,  Ralph  JJrandon, 
of  Brandon  Hall,  Devonshire,  England,  who 
will  do  more  than  any  other  man  to  cause  justice 
to  have  its  due. 

"To  further  the  ends  of  justice  and  to  satisfy 
the  desires  of  my  friends,  I  will  write  an  account 
of  the  whole  case. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  I  declare  that  John 
Potts  is  guilty  of  my  death.  He  was  my  servant. 
I  first  found  him  in  India  under  very  remarkable 
circumstances. 

"It  was  in  the  year  182G.  The  Government 
was  engaged  in  an  eft'ort  to  put  down  bands  of 
assassins  by  whom  the  most  terrific  atrocities  had 
been  committed,  and  I  was  appointed  to  conduct 
the  work  in  the  district  of  Agi'a. 

"The  Thuggee  society  is  still  a  mystery, 
though  its  nature  may  yet  be  revealed  if  they  can 
only  ca])ture  the  diief*  and  make  him  confess. 
As  yet  it  is  not  fully  known,  and  though  I  have 

•  The  chief  was  captured  In  lS.^o,  and  by  his  con- 
fession all  the  atrocious  system  of  Thuggee  was  re- 
vealed. '. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


88 


heard  much  which  I  have  reported  to  the  Got- 
emment,  yet  I  am  slow  to  believe  that  any  human 
beings  can  actually  practice  what  I  have  heard. 

"The  assassins  whom  I  was  pursuing  eluded 
our  pursuit  with  manelous  agility  and  cunning, 
but  one  by  one  we  captured  them,  and  punished 
them  summarily.  At  last  we  surrounded  a  band 
of  Thugs,  and  to  our  amazement  found  among 
them  a  European  and  a  small  boy.  At  our  at- 
tack the  Hindus  made  a  desperate  resistance, 
and  killed  themselves  rather  than  fall  into  our 
hands ;  but  the  European,  leading  for\vard  the 
little  boy,  fell  on  his  knees  and  implored  us  to 
save  him. 

"  I  had  heard  that  an  Englishman  had  joined 
these  WTetches,  and  at  first  thought  that  this  was 
the  man ;  so,  desirous  of  capturing  him,  1  or- 
dered my  men  whenever  they  found  him  to  spare 
his  life  if  possible.  This  man  was  at  once  seized 
and  brought  before  me. 

"  He  had  a  piteous  story  to  tell.  He  said  that 
his  name  was  John  Potts,  that  he  belonged  to 
Southampton,  and  had  been  in  India  a  year. 
He  had  come  to  Agra  to  look  out  for  employ 
as  a  servant,  and  had  been  caught  by  the  Thugs. 
They  ottered  to  spare  his  life  if  he  would  join 
them.  According  to  him  they  always  make  tliis 
offer.  If  it  had  only  been  himself  that  was  con- 
cerned he  said  that  he  would  have  died  a  hun- 
dred times  rather  than  have  accepted ;  but  his 
little  boy  was  with  him,  and  to  save  his  life  he 
consented,  hoping  that  somehow  or  other  he 
might  escape.  They  then  received  him  with 
some  horrible  ceremonies,  and  marked  on  his 
arm  and  on  the  arm  of  his  son,  on  the  inner  part 
of  the  right  elbow,  the  name  oi'  Bowhani  in 
Hindu  characters.  Potts  showed  me  his  arm 
and  that  of  his  son  in  proof  of  this. 

"  He  had  been  with  them,  according  to  his 
own  account,  about  three  months,  and  his  life 
had  been  one  continuous  horior.  He  had  picked 
up  enough  of  their  language  to  conjecture  fi  some 
extent  the  nature  of  their  belief,  which,  he  assert- 
ed, would  be  most  important  information  for  the 
Government.  The  Thugs  had  treated  him  very 
kindly,  for  they  looked  upon  him  as  one  of  them- 
selves, and  they  are  all  very  humane  and  affec- 
tionate to  one  another.  His  worst  fear  had  been 
that  they  would  compel  him  to  do  murder ;  and 
he  would  have  died,  he  declared,  rather  than  con- 
sent ;  but,  fortunately,  he  was  spared.  The  rea- 
son of  this,  he  said,  was  because  they  always  do 
their  murder  by  strangling,  since  the  shedding 
of  blood  is  not  acceptable  to  their  divinity.  He 
could  not  do  this,  for  it  requires  great  dexterity. 
Almost  all  their  strangling  is  done  by  a  thin, 
strong  cord,  curiously  twisted,  about  six  feet  in 
length,  with  a  weight  at  one  end,  generally  carved 
so  as  to  represent  the  face  of  Bowhani.  This 
they  throw  with  a  peculiar  jerk  around  the  neck 
of  their  victim.  The  weight  swings  the  cord 
round  and  round,  while  the  strangler  pulls  at 
the  other  end,  and  death  is  inevitable.  His 
hands,  lie  said,  were  coarse  and  clumsy,  unlike 
the  delicate  1  iindu  hands ;  and  so,  although  they 
forced  him  to  practice  incessantly,  he  could  not 
learn,  lie  said  nothing  about  the  boy,  but,  from 
what  I  saw  of  that  boy  afterward,  1  believe  that 
nature  created  him  especially  to  be  a  Thug,  and 
have  no  doubt  that  he  learned  then  to  wield  the 
cord  >vith  as  much  dexterity  as  the  best  strangler 
of  them  all. 


"His  associr.iion  with  them  had  shown  him 
much  of  their  ordinary  habits  and  some  of  their 
beliefs.  I  gathered  from  what  he  said  that  the 
basis  of  the  Thugse«  society  is  the  v.'cr«htn  of 
Bowhani,  a  frightful  d2mon,  whose  highest  joy 
is  the  sight  of  death  or  dead  bodies.  Those  who 
are  her  disciples  must  offer  up  human  victims 
killed  without  the  shedding  of  blood,  and  the 
more  he  can  kill  the  more  of  a  saint  he  becomes. 
The  motive  for  this  is  never  gain,  for  they  rarely 
plunder,  but  purely  religious  zeal  The  reward 
is  an  immortality  of  bliss  hereafter,  which  Bow- 
hani will  secure  them  ;  a  life  like  that  of  the  Mo- 
hammedan Paradise,  where  there  are  material 
joys  to  be  possessed  forever  without  satiety. 
Destruction,  which  begins  as  a  kind  of  duty,  be- 
comes also  at  last,  and  naturally  perhaps,  an  ab- 
sorbing passion.  As  the  hunter  in  pursuing  his 
prey  is  carried  away  by  excitement  and  the  en- 
thusiasm of  the  chase,  or,  in  hunting  the  tiger, 
feels  the  delight  of  braving  danger  and  displaying 
courage,  so  here  that  same  passion  is  felt  to  an 
extraordinary  degree,  for  it  is  Juan  that  must  be 
pursued  and  destroyed.  Here,  in  addition  to 
courage,  the  hunter  of  man  must  call  into  exer- 
cise cunning,  foresight,  eloquence,  intrigue.  All 
this  I  afterward  brought  to  the  attention  of  the 
Government  with  very  good  results. 

"Potts  declared  that  night  and  day  he  had 
been  on  the  watch  foe  a  chance  to  escape,  but  so 
infernal  was  the  cunning  of  these  wretches,  and 
so  quick  their  senses,  sharpened  as  they  had  been 
by  long  practice,  that  success  became  hopeless. 
He  had  fallen  into  deep  dejection,  and  concluded 
that  his  only  hope  la^  in  the  efforts  of  the  Gov- 
ernment to  put  down  these  assassins.  Our  ap- 
pearance had  at  last  saved  him. 

"  Neither  I,  nor  any  of  my  men,  nor  any  En- 
glishman who  heard  this  story,  doubted  for  an 
instant  the  truth  of  every  word.  All  the  news- 
papers mentioned  with  delight  the  fact  that  an  En- 
glishman and  his  son  had  been  rescued.  Pity  was 
felt  for  that  fiitlier  who,  forhis  son's  sake,  had  con- 
sented to  dwell  amidst  scenes  of  terror,  and  sym- 
pathy for  the  anguish  that  he  must  have  endured 
during  that  terrific  captivity.  A  thrill  of  horror 
passed  through  all  our  Anglo-Indian  society  at 
the  revelation  which  he  made  about  Thuggee ; 
and  so  great  was  the  feeling  in  his  favor  that  a 
handsome  subscription  was  made  up  for  hiui  by 
the  ofBcers  at  Agra. 

"For  my  part  I  believed  in  him  most  im- 
plicitly, and,  as  I  saw  him  to  be  unusually 
clever,  I  engaged  him  at  once  to  be  my  serv- 
ant. He  staid  with  me,  and  every  month  won 
more  and  more  of  my  confidence.  He  had  a 
good  head  for  business.  Matters  of  considerable 
delicacy  which  I  intrusted  to  him  were  well  per- 
formed, and  at  last  I  thought  it  the  most  fortu- 
nate circumstance  in  my  Indian  life  that  I  had 
found  such  a  man. 

"After  about  three  years  he  expressed  a  wish 
to  go  to  England  for  the  sake  of  his  son.  He 
thought  India  a  bad  place  for  a  boy,  and  wished 
to  try  and  start  in  some  business  in  his  native 
land  for  his  son's  sake. 

"That  boy  liad  always  been  my  detestation — 
a  crafty,  stealthy,  wily,  malicious  little  demon, 
who  was  a  perfect  Thug  in  his  nature,  without 
any  religious  basis  to  his  Thuggeeism.  I  pitied 
Potts  for  being  the  father  of  such  a  son.  I  could 
i  not  let  the  little  devil  live  in  my  house ;  his  cru- 


84 


CORD  AND  CREESK 


elty  to  animals  which  he  delighted  to  torture, 
his  thieving  propensities,  and  his  infernal  deceit, 
were  all  so  intolerable.  He  was  not  more  than 
twelve,  but  he  was  older  in  iniquity  than  many 
a  grny-headed  villain.  To  oblige  Potts,  whom 
I  still  trusted  implicitly,  I  wrote  to  my  old  friend 
Ralph  Brandon,  of  Brandon  Hall,  Devonshire, 
requesting  him  to  do  what  he  could  for  so  de- 
serving a  man. 

"  Just  about  this  time  an  event  occurred  which 
has  brought  me  to  this. 

"My  sweet  wife  had  been  ill  for  two  years. 
I  had  obtained  a  faithful  nurse  in  the  person  of 
a  Mrs.  Compton,  a  poor  creature,  but  gentle  and 
affectionate,  for  whom  my  dear  love's  sympathy 
had  been  excited.  No  one  could  have  been 
more  faithful  than  Mrs.  Compton,  and  I  sent 
my  darling  to  the  hill  station  at  Assurabad  in 
hopes  that  the  cooler  air  might  reinvigorate  her. 

"She  died.  It  is  only  a  month  or  two  since 
that  frightful  blow  fell  and  crushed  me.  To  think 
of  it  overwhelms  me — to  write  of  it  is  impossible. 

"  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  to  tiy  from  my 
unendurable  grief.  I  wished  to  get  away  from 
India  any  where.  Before  the  blow  crushed  me  I 
hoj)ed  that  I  might  carry  my  dai-ling  to  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope,  and  therefore  I  remitted  there 
a  large  sum ;  but  after  she  left  me  I  cared  not 
where  I  went,  and  finding  that  a  vessel  was  go- 
ing to  Maiiilhi  I  decided  to  go  there. 

"  It  was  Potts  who  found  out  this.  I  now 
know  that  he  engaged  the  vessel,  put  the  crew 
on  board,  who  were  all  creatures  of  his  own,  and 
took  the  route  to  Manilla  for  the  sake  of  carrj-- 
ing  out  his  designs  on  me.  To  give  every  thing 
a  fair  api)earance  the  vessel  was  laden  with  store? 
and  things  of  that  sort,  for  which  there  was  a 
demand  at  Manilla.  It  was  with  the  most  per- 
fect indifference  that  I  embarked.  I  cared  not 
where  I  went,  and  hoped  that  the  novelty  of  the 
sea  voyage  might  benefit  me. 

"  The  captain  was  an  Italian  named  Cigole,  a 
low-browed,  evil-faced  villain.  The  mate  was 
named  Clark.  There  were  three  I^ascars,  who 
formed  the  small  crew.  Potts  came  with  me, 
and  also  an  old  servant  of  mine,  a  Malay,  whose 
life  I  had  saved  years  before.  His  name  was 
Uracao.  It  struck  me  tliat  the  crew  was  a  small 
one,  but  1  thought  the  caj)tain  knew  his  business 
better  than  I,  and  so  I  gave  myself  no  concern. 

"  After  we  embarked  Potts's  manner  changed 
very  greatly.  I  remember  this  now,  though  I 
did  not  n(.:ice  it  at  the  time,  for  I  was  almost  in 
a  kind  of  stupor.  He  was  ])avticuhirly  insolent 
to  Uracao.  I  remember  once  thinking  indiffer- 
ently that  Potts  would  have  to  be  reprimanded, 
or  kicked,  or  something  of  that  sort,  but  was  not 
capable  of  any  action. 

"  Uracao  had  for  years  slept  in  front  of  my 
door  when  at  home,  and,  when  traveling,  in  the 
same  room.  He  always  waked  at  the  slightest 
noise.  He  regarded  his  life  as  mine,  and  thought 
that  he  was  bound  to  watch  over  me  till  I  died. 
Although  this  was  often  inconvenient,  yet  it  would 
have  broken  the  affeoionate  fellow's  heart  if  I 
had  forbidden  it,  so  it  went  on.  Potts  made  an 
effort  to  induce  him  to  sleep  fonvard  among  the 
Lascars,  but  though  Uracao  had  borne  insolence 
from  him  without  a  murmur,  this  proposal  made 
his  eyes  kindle  with  a  menacing  fire  which  si- 
lenced the  other  into  fear. 

"The  passage  was  a  quick  one,  and  at  last  we 


were  only  a  few  days'  sail  from  Manilla.  Now 
our  quiet  came  to  an  end.  -  One  night  I  was 
awakened  by  a  tremendous  strnggle  in  my  cabin. 
Starting  nij,  I  saw  in  the  gloom  two  figures 
struggling  desperately.  It  was  impossible  to  see 
who  they  were.  1  sprang  from  the  berth  and 
felt  for  my  jnstols.     'I'hey  were  gone. 

"  '  What  the  devil  is  tliis  ?'  1  roared  fiercely. 

"  No  answer  came ;  but  the  next  moment  there 
was  a  tremendous  fall,  and  one  of  the  men  clung 
to  the  other,  whom  he  held  downward.  I  sprang 
from  my  berth.  There  were  low  voices  out  in 
the  cabin. 

"  'You  can't,'  said  one  voice,  which  I  recog- 
nized as  Clark's.     '  He  has  his  j.'istols.' 

'  'He  hasn't,'  said  the  voice  of  Cigole.  'Potls 
took  them  away.     He's  unarmed. ' 

"  'Who  are  you?'  I  cried,  grasping  the  man 
who  was  holding  the  other  down. 

"  '  Uracao,'  said  he.  '  Get  your  pistols  or 
you're  lost ! ' 

"  'What  the  devil  is  the  matter?'  I  cried,  an- 
grily, for  I  had  not  even  yet  a  suspicion. 

"  'Peel  around  j'our  neck,'  said  lie. 

"  Hastily  I  i)ut  my  hand  up.  A  thrill  of  hor- 
ror passed  through  me.    It  was  the  Thuggee  cord. 

'"Who  is  this?'  I  cried,  grasping  the  man 
who  had  fallen. 

"' Potts, '  cried  Uracao.  'Your  j.istols  are 
under  your  berth.  Quick !  Potts  tried  to  stran- 
gle you.  There's  a  plot.  The  Lascars  are  Thugs. 
I  saw  the  mark  on  their  arms,  the  name  of  Bow- 
hani  in  Hindu  letters.' 

"All  the  truth  now  seemed  to  flash  across  me. 
I  lea))ed  back  to  the  berth  to  look  under  it  f  ;r 
my  pistols.  As  I  stooped  there  was  a  rush  be- 
hind me. 

"  '  Help !  Clark !  Quick !'  cried  the  voice  of 
Potts.      '  This  devil's  strangling  me !' 

"At  this  a  tumult  arose  round  the  two  men. 
Uracao  was  dragged  oft".  Potts  rose  to  his  feet. 
At  that  moment  I  found  my  pistols.  I  could 
not  distinguish  persons,  but  I  ran  the  risk  and 
fired.  A  sharp  cry  followed.  Somebody  was 
wounded. 

"  '  Damn  him !'  cried  Potts,  '  he's  got  the  pis- 
tols. ' 

"The  next  moment  they  had  all  rushed  out, 
dragging  Uracao  with  them.  The  door  was 
drawn  to  violently  with  a  bang  and  fastened  on 
the  outside.  They  had  captured  the  only  man 
who  could  help  me,  and  I  was  a  prisoner  at  the 
mercy  of  these  miscreants. 

"All  the  remainder  of  the  night  and  until  the 
following  morning  I  heard  noises  and  tramp- 
ling to  and  fro,  but  had  no  idea  whatever  of 
what  was  going  on.  I  felt  indignation  at  the 
treachery  of  Potts,  who,  I  now  jierceived,  had 
deceived  me  all  along,  but  had  no  fear  whatever 
of  any  thing  that  might  happen.  Death  was 
rather  grateful  than  otherwise.  Still  1  determ- 
ined to  sell  my  life  as  dearly  as  possible,  and, 
loading  my  pistol  once  more,  I  waited  for  them 
to  come.  The  only  anxiety  which  1  felt  was 
about  my  poor  faithful  Malay. 

"But  time  passed,  and  at  last  all  was  still. 
There  was  no  sound  either  of  voices  or  of  foot- 
steps. I  waited  for  what  seemed  hours  in  im- 
patience, until  finally  I  could  endure  it  no  lon- 
ger. I  was  not  going  to  die  like  a  dog.  but  de- 
termined at  all  hazards  to  go  out  anned,  fac*i 
them,  aud  meet  my  doom  at  once. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


"A  few  ^-igorous  kicks  at  the  door  broke  it 
opeu  and  I  walked  out.  There  •■vas  no  one  in 
the  cabi'.i.  I  went  out  on  deck.  There  was  no 
one  there.  I  saw  it  all.  I  was  deserted.  More ; 
the  brig  had  settled  down  so  low  in  the  water 
that  the  sea  was  up  to  her  gunwales.  I  looked 
out  over  the  ocean  to  see  if  i  could  perceive  any 
trace  of  them — Potts  and  the  rest.  I  saw  no- 
thing. They  must  have  left  long  before.  A  faint 
smoke  in  the  hatchway  attracted  my  attention. 
Looking  there,  I  perceived  that  it  had  been  burn- 
ed away.  The  viiiiuns  had  evidently  tried  to 
scuttle  the  brig,  and  then,  to  make  doubly  sure, 
had  kindled  a  fire  on  the  cargo,  thinking  that 
the  wooden  materials  of  which  it  was  composed 
would  kindle  readily.  But  the  water  had  rush- 
ed in  too  rapidly  for  the  flames  to  spread ;  never- 
theless, the  water  was  not  able  to  do  its  work, 
for  the  wood  cargo  kept  the  brig  afloat.  She 
was  water-logged  but  still  floating. 

"The  masts  and  shrouds  were  all  cut  away. 
The  vessel  was  now  little  better  than  a  raft,  and 
was  drifting  at  the  mercy  of  the  ocean  currents. 
For  iny  part  I  did  not  much  care.  I  had  no 
desire  to  go  to  Manilla  or  any  where  else ;  and 
the  love  of  life  which  is  usually  so  strong  did  not 
exist.  I  should  have  preferred  to  have  been 
killed  or  drowned  at  once.  Instead  of  that  I 
lived. 

"She  died  on  June  15.  It  was  the  2d  of 
Juiy  when  tliis  occurred  which  I  have  narrated. 
It  is  now  the  lOth.  For  a  week  I  liuve  been 
drifting  I  know  not  where.  I  have  seen  no  land. 
There  are  enough  provisions  and  water  on  board 
to  sustain  mc  for  months.  The  weather  has 
been  fine  thus  far. 

"I  have  written  this  with  tiie  wish  that  who- 
ever may  find  it  will  send  it  to  Ralph  Brandon, 
Esq. ,  of  Brandon  Hall,  Devonshire,  that  he  may 
see  that  justice  is  done  to  Potts,  and  the  rest  of 
the  conspirators.  Let  him  also  try,  if  it  be  not 
too  late,  to  save  Uracao.  If  this  fall  into  the 
hands  of  any  one  going  to  England  let  it  be  de- 
livered to  him  as  above,  but  if  the  finder  be  going 
to  India  let  him  place  it  in  the  hands  of  the  Gov- 
ernor-Genoral ;  if  to  China  or  any  other  place, 
let  him  give  it  to  the  authorities,  enjoining  them, 
however,  after  using  it,  to  send  it  to  Ralph 
Brandon  as  above. 

"It  will  be  seen  by  this  that  John  Potts  was 
in  connection  with  the  Thugs,  probably  fur  the 
sake  of  plundering  those  whom  they  murdered ; 
that  he  conspired  against  me  and  tried  to  kill 
me ;  and  that  he  has  wrought  my  death  (for  I 
expect  to  die).  An  examination  of  my  desk 
r-hows  that  he  has  taken  papers  and  bank  bills 
to  the  amount  of  four  thousand  pounds  with 
him.  It  was  this,  no  doubt,  that  induced  him 
to  make  this  attempt  against  me.    , 

"  I  desire  also  hereby  to  appoint  Henry  Thorn- 
ton, Sen.,  Esq.,  of  Holby  Pembroke,  Solicitor, 
my  executor  and  the  giiardian  of  my  son  Court- 
enay,  to  wiom  I  bequeath  a  fiithers  blessing 
and  all  th  tt  I  possess.  Let  him  try  to  secure 
my  money  in  v'^ape  Town  for  my  boy,  and,  if 
possible,  to  regain  for  him  the  four  thousand 
jKJunds  which  Potts  has  carried  oflT. 

"Along  with  this  manuscript  I  also  inclose 
the  strangling  cord. 

"May  God  have  mercy  ui)on  my  soul! 
Amen. 

"Lionel  Deupakd." 


"July  28. — Since  I  wrote  this  there  has  been 
a  series  of  tremendous  storms.  The  weather  has 
cleared  up  again.  I  have  seen  no  land  and  no 
ship. 

^^  July  31. — Land  to-day  visjble  at  a  great 
distance  on  the  south.  I  know  not  what  laud  it 
may  be.  I  can  not  tell  in  what  direction  I  am 
drifting. 

'■''August  2. — Land  visible  toward  tlie  south- 
we.st.  It  seems  like  the  summit  of  a  range  of 
mountains,  and  is  probably  fifty  miles  distant. 

^'  Atujust  '). — A  sail  apjjeared  on  tiie  lioiizon. 
It  was  too  distant  to  perceive  me.  It  passed  out 
of  sight. 

'■'■  August  10. — A  series  of  severe  giiles.  The 
sea  always  rolls  over  the  brig  in  these  stonns, 
and  sometimes  seems  about  to  carry  her  tlown, 

'^^  August  20. — Storms  and  calms  alternating. 
When  will  this  end  ? 

'■''August  25. — Land  again  toward  the  west. 
It  seems  as  though  I  may  be  drifting  among  the 
islands  of  the  Indian  Archipelago. 

"September  2. — I  have  been  sick  for  a  week. 
Unfortunately  I  am  beginning  to  recover  again. 
A  faint  blue  streak  in  the  north  seems  like  land. 

"■September  10. — Open  water. 

"  September  23. — A  series  of  storms.  How 
the  brig  can  stand  it  I  can  not  see.  I  remem- 
ber Potts  telling  me  that  she  was  built  of  mahog- 
any and  copper-fastened.  She  does  not  iijijjear 
to  be  much  injured.  I  am  exceedingly  weak 
from  ivant  and  exposure.  It  is  witli  difiieulty 
that  I  can  move  about. 

"  October  2. — Three  months  adrift.  My  God 
have  mercy  on  me,  and  .nake  haste  to  deliver 
me  I  A  storrn  is  rising.  Let  all  Thy  waves 
and  billows  ovenvhelm  me,  O  Lord  ! 

"  October  r>. — A  terrific  storm.  Eaged  three 
days.  The  brig  has  run  aground.  It  is  a  low 
island,  with  a  rock  about  five  miles  away.  Thank 
God.  my  last  hour  is  at  hand.  The  sea  is  rush- 
ing in  with  tremendous  violence,  hurling  sand 
upon  the  brig.  I  shall  drift  no  more.  I  can 
scarcely  hold  this  pen.  These  are  my  last 
words.  This  is  for  Ralph  Brandon  My  bless- 
ing for  my  loved  son.  I  feel  death  coming. 
Whether  the  storm  takes  me  or  not,  I  must  die. 

"Whoever  finds  this  will  take  it  from  my 
hand,  and,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  charge  him  to 
do  my  bidding. " 

This  \cas  the  last.  The  concluding  pages  of 
the  manuscript  were  scarcely  legible.  The  en- 
tries were  meagre  and  formal,  but  the  hand- 
writing spoke  of  the  darkest  despair.  What 
agonies  had  this  man  not  endured  during  those 
three  months! 

Brandon  folded  up  the  manuscript  reveren- 
tially, and  put  it  into  his  pocket.  lie  then 
went  back  into  the  cabin.  Taking  the  bony 
skeleton  hand  he  exclaimed,  in  a  solemn  voice, 
"In  the  name  of  God,  if  I  am  saved,  I  swear  to 
do  your  bidding!" 

He  next  proceeded  to  perform  the  last  officeg 
to  the  remains  of  Colonel  Despard.  On  remov- 
ing the  sand  something  bright  struck  his  eye. 
It  was  a  gold  locket.  As  he  tried  to  open  it 
the  rusty  hinge  broke,  and  the  cover  came  off. 

It  was  a  painting  on  enamel,  which  was  as 
bright  as  when  made — the  portrait  of  a  beauti- 
ful woman,  with  pensive  eyes,  and  delicate,  in- 
tellectual expression;  and  appeared  as  though 


,i 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


THREE   MONTHS   ADRIFT. 


It  might  have  heen  worn  around  the  Colonel's 
neck.  Bramlon  sighed,  then  putting  tliis  in  his 
pocket  with  the  manuscript  he  proceeded  to  his 
task.  In  an  liour  the  remains  were  buried  in 
the  grave  on  CofBn  Ishmd. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   SIGNAL   OB'    FIRE. 

The  wreck  oroke  in  upon  the  monotony  of 
Brandon's  island  lii'e  and  changed  the  current 
of  liis  thoughts.  'I'iie  revelations  contained  in 
Despard's  manuscript  cunie  with  perfect  novelty 
to  his  mind.  I'otts.  liis  enemy,  now  stood  be- 
fore him  in  darker  colors,  the  foulest  of  miscre- 
ants, one  who  had  descended  to  an  association 
with  Thuggee,  one  who  bore  on  his  arm  the 
dread  mark  of  Bowhani.  Against  such  an  en- 
emy as  this  he  would  have  to  be  wary.  If  this 
enemy  suspected  his  existence  could  he  not  read- 
ily find  means  to  effect  his  destruction  for- 
ever ?  Who  coidd  tell  what  mysterious  allies  this 
man  might  have  ?  Cigole  had  tracked  and  fol- 
lowed him  with  the  jiatience  and  vindictiveness 
of  a  blood-hound.  There  might  be  many  such 
as  he,  He  sa-,v  plainly 'that  if  he  ever  escaped 
his  first  and  highest  necessity  would  be  to  work 
in  secret,  to  conceal  his  true  name,  and  to  let 
it  be  supposed  that  Lonis  Brandon  had  been 
drowned,  while  another  name  would  enable  him 
to  do  what  he  wished. 


The  message  of  I^csjiavd  was  now  a  sacred 
legacy  to  himself  The  duty  which  the  murdered 
man  had  imjiosed  upon  his  father  must  now  be 
inherited  by  him.  Even  this  could  scarcely  add 
to  the  obligations  to  vengeance  under  which  he 
already  lay ;  yet  it  freshened  his  passion  und 
quickened  his  resolve. 

The  brig  was  a  novelty  to  him  here,  and  as 
day  succeeded  to  day  he  found  occupation  in 
searching  her.  During  the  hotter  part  of  the 
day  he  busied  himself  in  shoveling  out  the  sand 
from  the  cavern  with  a  board.  In  the  cool  of 
the  morning  or  evening  he  'vorked  at  the  hatch- 
way.    Here  he  soon  reached  the  cargo. 

This  cargo  consisted  of  staves  and  short  boards. 
All  were  blackened,  and  showed  traces  of  fire. 
The  fire  seemed  to  have  burned  down  to  a  depth 
of  four  feet,  and  two  or  three  feet  under  the  sides ; 
then  the  water  coming  in  had  quenched  it. 

He  drew  out  hundreds  of  these  staves  and 
boards,  which  were  packed  in  bundles,  six  boards 
being  nailed  together  as  box-shooks,  and  thirty 
or  forty  staves.  These  he  threw  out  upon  the 
deck  and  on  the  sand.  What  remained  he  drew 
abouf  and  scattered  loosely  in  the  hold  of  the 
vessel.  He  did  this  with  a  purpose,  for  he  looked 
fonvard  to  the  time  when  some  ship  might  pasa, 
and  it  woidd  then  be  necessary  to  attract  her  at- 
tention. There  was  no  way  of  doing  so.  He 
had  no  pole,  and  if  he  had  it  might  not  be  no- 
ticed. A  fire  would  be  the  surest  way  of  draw- 
ing attenti-n,  and  all  this  wood  gave  him  the 
means  cf  building  one.     He  scattered  it  about 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


87 


on  the  Eand,  so  thnt  it  might  dry  in  the  hot 
Kun. 

Yet  it  was  also  necessarj'  to  have  some  sort  of 
a  signal  to  elevate  in  case  of  need.  He  had  no- 
thing but  a  knife  to  work  with  ;  yet  patient  ef- 
fort will  do  much,  and  after  about  a  week  he  had 
cut  away  the  rail  that  ran  along  the  (juarter-deck, 
which  gave  him  a  jiole  some  twenty  feet  in  length. 
The  nails  that  fastened  the  boards  were  all  rust- 
ed so  that  they  could  not  be  used  in  attaching 
any  thing  to  this.  He  decided  when  the  time 
came  to  tie  his  coat  to  it,  and  use  that  as  a  flag. 
It  certainly  ought  to  be  able  to  attract  attention. 

Occupied  with  such  ])lans  and  labors  and  pur- 
poses as  these,  the  days  passed  quickly  for  two 
weeks.  By  that  time  the  fierce  rays  of  the  sun 
had  dried  every  board  and  staVe  so  that  it  be- 
came like  tinder  The  ship  itself  felt  the  heat ; 
the  seams  gaped  more  widely,  the  boards  warjied 
and  fell  away  from  their  rusty  nails,  the  timbers 
were  exposed  all  over  it,  and  the  hot,  dry  wind 
penetrated  every  cranny.  The  interior  of  the 
hold  and  the  cabin  became  free  from  damp,  and 
hot  and  dry. 

Then  Brandon  flung  back  many  of  the  boards 
and  staves  loosely ;  and  after  enough  had  been 
thrown  there  he  worked  laboriously  for  days  cut- 
ting up  large  numbers  of  the  lK)urds  into  fine 
splints,  until  at  last  a  huge  pile  of  these  shavings 
were  accunmlated.  With  these  and  his  pistol 
he  would  be  able  to  obtain  light  and  fire  in  the 
time  of  need. 

The  post  which  he  had  cut  off  was  then  sharp- 
ened at  one  end,  so  that  he  could  fix  it  in  the 
sand  when  the  time  came,  should  it  ever  come. 
Here,  then,  these  preparations  were  completed. 

After  all  his  labor  in  the  cabin  nothing  was 
found.  The  bedding,  the  mattresses,  the  chests, 
the  nautical  instruments  had  all  been  ruined. 
The  tables  and  chairs  fell  to  pieces  when  the 
sand  was  removed;  the  doors  and  wood-work 
sank  away ;  the  cabin  when  cleared  remained  a 
wreck. 

The  weather  continued  hot  and  drj'.  At  night 
Brandon  flung  himself  down  wherever  he  hap- 
pened to  be,  either  at  the  brig  or  at  the  rock. 
Everj-  day  he  had  to  go  to  the  rock  for  water, 
and  also  to  look  out  toward  the  sea  from  that 
side.  At  first,  while  intent  upon  his  work  at  the 
ship,  the  sight  of  the  barren  horizon  every  day 
did  not  materially  affect  him ;  he  rose  superior 
to  despondency  and  cheered  himself  with  his  task. 
But  at  length,  at  the  end  of  about  three  weeks, 
all  this  work  was  done  and  nothing  more  re- 
mained. His  only  idea  was  to  Inbor  to  effect  hi.- 
escape,  and  not  to  insure  his  comfort  during  hit 
stay. 

Now  as  day  succeeded  to  day  all  his  old  gloom 
returned.  The  excitement  of  the  last  few  weeks 
had  acted  favorably  upon  his  bodily  health,  but 
when  this  was  removed  he  began  to  feel  more 
than  his  old  weakness.  Such  diet  as  his  might 
sustain  nature,  but  it  could  not  preserve  health. 
He  grew  at  length  to  loathe  the  food  which  he 
had  to  take,  and  it  was  only  by  a  stem  resolve 
that  he  forced  himself  to  swallow  it. 

At  length  a  new  evil  was  superadded  to  those 
which  had  Already  afflicted  him.  During  the 
first  part  of  his  stay  the  hollow  or  pool  of  water 
on  the  rock  had  always  been  kept  filled  by  the 
frequent  rains.  But  now  for  three  weeks,  in 
fact  ever  since  the  uncovering  of  the  Fishnu,  not 


a  single  drop  of  rain  had  fallen.  The  sun  shone 
with  intense  heat,  and  the  evaporation  was  great. 
The  wind  at  first  temjiered  this  heat  somewhat, 
but  at  last  this  ceased  to  blow  by  day,  and  often 
for  hours  there  was  a  dead  calm,  in  which  the 
water  of  the  sea  lay  unrutHed  and  all  the  air  was 
motionless. 

If  there  could  only  have  been  something  whi(  h 
he  could  stretch  over  thnt  ])recious  pool  of  wafer 
he  might  then  have  arrested  its  flight.  Biit  lie 
had  nothing,  and  could  contrive  nothing.  Kvery 
day  saw  a  jierceptiblc  decrease  in  its  volume,  anil 
at  last  it  went  down  so  low  that  he  thought  he 
could  count  the  number  of  days  that  were  left 
him  to  live.  Hut  his  despair  could  not  stay  the 
operation  of  the  laws  of  nature,  and  he  w  attlied 
the  decrease  of  that  water  as  one  watches  the 
failing  breath  of  a  dying  child. 

■'iany  weeks  jmssed,  and  the  water  of  the 
pool  still  diminished.  At  last  it  had  sunk  so 
low  that  Brandon  could  not  hope  to  live  more 
than  another  week  unless  rain  came,  and  that 
now  he  could  scarcely  expect.  The  look-out  be- 
came more  hopeless,  and  at  length  his  thoughts, 
instead  of  turning  toward  escape,  were  occupied 
with  deliberating  whether  he  would  probably  die 
of  starvation  or  simjile  physical  exhaustion,  lie 
began  to  enter  into  that  state  of  mind  which  he 
hud  read  in  Despard's  MSS.,  in  which  life  ceases 
to  be  a  matter  of  desire,  and  the  only  wish  left 
is  to  die  as  quickly  and  as  ]:ainlessly  as  possible. 

At  length  one  day  as  his  eyes  swept  the  wa- 
ters mechanically  out  of  pure  habit,  and  not  ex- 
pecting any  thing,  he  saw  far  iway  to  the  north- 
east something  which  looked  like  a  sail.  He 
watched  it  for  an  hour  before  he  fairly  decided 
that  it  was  not  some  mocking  cloud.  But  at 
the  end  of  that  time  it  had  grown  larger,  and  had 
a.ssumed  a  form  which  no  cloud  could  keep  so 
long. 

Kow  his  heart  beat  fast,  and  all  the  old  long- 
ing for  escape,  at d  the  old  love  of  life  returned 
with  fresh  vehemence.  This  new  emotion  over- 
jioweved  him,  and  he  did  not  try  to  struggle 
with  it. 

Now  hat'  come  the  day  and  the  hour  when  all 
life  vi-as  '.i  suspense.  This  was  his  first  hope, 
and  he  felt  that  it  must  be  his  last.  Experience 
had  shown  that  the  island  must  lie  outside  the 
common  track  of  vessels,  and,  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  if  this  passed  by  he  could  not 
hope  to  see  another. 

Now  he  had  to  decide  how  to  attract  her  no- 
tice. She  was  still  far  away,  yet  she  was  evi- 
dently drawing  nearer.  The  rock  was  higher 
than  the  mound  and  more  conspicuous.  He  de- 
termined to  caiTy  his  signal  there,  and  erect  it 
somewhere  on  that  place.  So  he  took  up  the 
heavy  staff,  and  bore  it  laboriously  over  the  sand 
till  he  reached  the  rock. 

By  the  time  that  he  arrived  there  the  vessel 
had  come  nearer.  Her  top-sails  were  visible  above 
the  horizon.  Her  progress  was  very  slow,  for  there 
was  only  very  little  wind.  Her  studding-sails 
were  all  set  to  catch  the  breeze,  and  her  course 
was  such  that  she  came  gradually  nearer.  Wheth- 
er she  would  come  near  enough  to  see  the  island 
was  another  question.  Yet  if  they  thought  of 
keeping  a  look-out,  if  the  men  in  the  top^  had 
glasses,  this  rock  and  the  signal  could  easily  be 
seen.  He  feared,  however,  that  this  would  not  he 
thought  ot^     The  existence  of  Coffin  Island  wm 


CORD  AND  CKEE8E. 


.f 


STILL  HE  STOOD  THERE,  HOLDING  ALOFT   HIS   SIGNAL. 


not  generally  known,  and  if  they  supposed  that 
there  was  only  open  water  here  they  would  not 
be  on  the  look-out  at  all. 

Nevertheless  Brandon  erected  his  signal,  and 
as  there  was  no  place  on  the  solid  rock  where  he 
could  insert  it  he  held  it  up  in  his  own  hands. 
Hours  passed.  The  ship  had  come  very  much 
nearer,  but  her  hull  was  not  yet  visible.  Still 
he  stood  there  under  the  burning  sun,  holding 
aloft  his  signal.  Fearing  that  it  might  not  be 
sufficiently  conspicuous  he  fastened  his  coat  to 
the  top,  and  then  waved  it  slowly  backward  and 
forward. 

The  ship  moved  more  slowly  than  ever ;  but 
still  it  was  coming  nearer ;  for  after  some  time, 
which  seemed  to  that  lonely  watcher  like  entire 
days,  her  hull  became  visible,  and  her  course 
still  lay  nearer. 

Now  Brandon  felt  that  he  must  be  noticed. 
He  waved  his  signal  incessantly.  He  even  leaped 
in  the  air,  so  that  he  might  be  seen.  He  thought 
that  the  rock  would  surely  be  perceived  from  the 
ship,  and  if  they  looked  t  that  they  would  see 
the  figure  upon  it. 

Then  despondency  came  over  him.  The  hull 
of  the  ship  was  visible,  but  it  was  only  the  up- 
permost line  of  the  hull.     He  was  standing  on 


the  very  top  of  the  rock,  on  its  highest  point. 
From  the  deck  they  could  not  see  the  rock  it- 
self. He  .stooped  down,  and  perceived  that  the 
hull  of  the  ship  sank  out  of  sight.  Then  he  knew 
that  the  rock  would  not  be  visible  to  them  at  all. 
Only  the  upper  half  of  his  body  could  by  any 
possibility  be  visible,  and  he  knew  enough  of  the 
sea  to  understand  that  this  would  have  the  dark 
sea  for  a  back-ground  to  observers  in  the  ship, 
and  therefore  could  not  be  seen. 

Still  he  would  not  yield  to  the  dejection  that 
was  rapidly  coming  over  him,  and  deepening  into 
despair  ever}'  minute.  Never  before  had  he  so 
clung  to  hope — never  before  had  his  soul  been 
more  indomitable  in  its  resolution,  more  vigor- 
ous in  its  strong  self-assertion. 

He  stood  there  still  waving  his  staff  as  though 
his  life  now  depended  upon  that  dumb  yet  elo- 
quent signal — as  though,  like  Moses,  as  long  as 
his  arms  were  erect,  so  long  would  he  be  able 
to  triumph  over  the  assault  of  despair.  Hours 
passed.  Still  no  notice  was  taken  of  }iim.  Still 
the  ship  held  on  her  course  slowly,  yet  steadily, 
and  no  change  of  direction,  no  movement  of  any 
kind  whatever,  showed  that  he  had  been  seen. 
What  troubled  him  now  was  the  idea  that  the 
ship  did  not  come  any  nearer.     This  at  first  he 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


refused  to  beiiere,  but  nt  last  he  raw  it  beyond 
doubt,  for  ut  length  the  liuU  was  no  longer  visi- 
ble Above  the  horizon. 

The  ship  was  now  due  north  from  the  rock, 
sailinK  on  a  line  directly  parallel  with  the  iHluiid. 
It  came  no  neiirer.  It  was  only  pausing  by  it. 
And  now  Urandon  saw  that  his  last  hoi)e  of  at- 
tracting attention  by  the  signal  was  gone.  The 
fillip  was  moving  onward  to  the  west,  and  eveiy 
minute  would  make  it  less  likely  that  those  on 
board  could  see  the  rod*. 

During  the  hours  in  which  he  had  watched 
the  siiip  lie  had  been  busy  conjecturing  what 
she  might  be,  and  from  what  )K)rt  she  might  have 
come.  The  direction  indicated  China  almost 
undoubtedly.  He  depicted  in  his  mind  a  large, 
commodious,  and  swift  shij),  with  many  passen- 
gers on  their  way  back  to  England.  He  imag- 
ined pleasant  society,  and  general  intercourse. 
His  fancy  created  a  thousand  scenes  of  delight- 
ful association  with  "the  kindly  race  of  men." 
All  earthly  happiness  seemed  to  him  nt  that  time 
to  find  its  centre  on  board  that  ship  which  pass- 
ed before  his  eyes. 

The  seas  were  bright  and  sparkling,  the  skies 
calm  and  deeply  blue,  the  winds  breatlied  softly, 
the  wliite  swelling  sails  putted  out  like  clouds 
against  the  blue  sky  beyond.  That  ship  seemed 
to  the  lonely  watcher  like  Heaven  itself.  Oh ! 
to  pass  beyond  the  limits  of  this  narrow  sandy 
waste !  to  cross  the  waters  and  enter  there ! 
( )h !  to  reach  that  ship  which  moved  on  so  ma- 
jestically, to  enter  there  and  be  at  rest ! 

It  wa-  not  given  him  to  enter  there.  Bran- 
don soon  saw  this.  The  ship  moved  farther 
away.  Already  the  sun  was  sinking,  and  the 
sudden  night  of  the  tropics  was  coming  swiftly 
on.     There  was  no  longer  any  hope. 

He  flung  the  staff  down  till  it  broke  asunder 
on  the  hard  rock,  and  stood  for  a  few  moments 
looking  out  at  sea  in  mute  despair. 

Yet  could  he  have  knov/n  what  was  shortly  to 
be  the  fate  of  that  ship — shortly,  only  in  a  fcAv 
days — he  would  not  have  despaired,  •  he  would 
have  rejoiced,  since  if  death  were  to  be  his  lot 
it  were  better  to  die  where  he  was  than  to  be 
rescued  and  gain  the  sweet  hope  of  life  afresh, 
and  then  have  that  hope  extinguished  in  blood. 

But  Brandon  did  not  remain  long  in  idleness. 
There  was  yet  one  resource — one  which  he  had 
already  thought  of  through  that  long  day,  but  hes- 
itated to  try,  since  he  would  have  to  forsake  his 
signal-station ;  and  to  remain  there  with  his  staft" 
seemed  to  him  then  the  only  pui-pose  of  his  life. 
Now  since  the  signal-staff  had  failed,  he  had 
broken  it,  as  some  magician  might  break  the 
wand  which  had  fiiiled  to  work  its  appropriate 
spell^  and  other  things  were  before  him.  He 
took  his  coat  and  descended  from  the  rock  to 
make  a  last  effort  for  life.  He  walked  back 
through  the  gathering  gloom  toward  the  wreck. 
He  did  not  run,  nor  did  he  in  any  way  exhibit 
any  excitement  whatever.  He  walked  with  a 
firm  step  over  the  sand,  neither  hastening  on 
nor  lagging  back,  but  advancing  calmly. 

Before  he  liad  gone  half-way  it  was  dark. 
The  sun  had  gone  down  in  a  sea  of  fire,  and  the 
western  sky,  after  flaming  for  a  time,  had  sunk 
into  darkness.  There  was  no  moon.  The  stars 
shone  dimly  from  behind  a  kind  of  haze  that 
overspread  the  sky.  The  wind  came  up  more 
freshly  from  the  east,  and  Brandon  knew  that 


this  wind  v/onld  carry  the  ship  which  he  wished 
to  attract  further  ami  further  away,  'i'hat  ship 
had  now  died  out  in  the  dark  of  the  ebon  sea ; 
the  chances  that  he  could  catch  its  notice  were 
all  against  him,  yet  he  never  faltered. 
I  He  hud  come  to  u  fixed  resolution,  which  was 
at  all  hazards  to  kindle  his  siguul-hre,  whatever 
the  chances  against  him  might  Ite.  He  thought 
that  the  flames  flaring  up  would  of  necessity  at- 
tract attention,  and  that  the  vessel  might  turn, 
or  lie-to,  and  try  to  discover  what  this  >night  be. 
If  this  lust  ho|ie  failed,  he  was  ready  to  die. 
Death  had  now  become  to  him  rather  a  thing  to 
l)e  desired  than  avoided.  Tor  he  knew  that  it 
was  only  a  change  of  life  ;  and  how  much  better 
I  would  life  be  in  a  t-piritual  world  than  life  on 
this  lonely  isle. 

This  decision  to  die  took  away  despair.  De- 
spair is  only  possible  to  those  who  value  this 
earthly  life  exclusively.  To  the  soul  that  looks 
forward  to  endless  life  despair  can  never  come. 

It  was  with  this  solemn  jjuqjose  that  Brandon 
went  to  the  wreck,  seeking  by  a  last  chance  after 
life,  yet  now  prepared  to  relinquish  it.  He  had 
siniggled  for  life  all  these  weeks  ;  he  had  fought 
and  wrestled  for  life  with  unutterable  spiritual 
agony,  all  day  long,  on  the  summit  of  that  rock, 
and  now  the  bitterness  of  death  was  past. 

An  hour  and  a  half  was  occupied  in  the  walk 
over  the  sand  to  the  wreck.  Fresh  waves  of 
daik  had  come  over  all  things,  and  now,  though 
there  were  no  clouds,  yel  the  gloom  was  intense, 
and  faint  points  of  light  in  the  sky  above  showed 
where  the  stars  might  be.  Where  now  was  the 
ship  for  which  Brandon  sought?  He  cared  not. 
He  was  going  to  kindle  his  signal-fire.  The  wind 
was  blowing  freshly  by  the  time  that  he  reached 
the  place.  huch  a  wind  had  not  blown  for 
weeks.  It  would  take  the  ship  away  farther. 
What  mattered  it?  He  would  seize  his  last 
chance,  if  it  v.ere  only  to  put  that  last  chance 
away  forever,  and  thus  make  an  end  of  susj)ensc. 

All  his  preparations  had  long  since  been  made; 
the  dry  wood  lay  loosely  thrown  about  the  hold ; 
the  pile  of  shavings  and  fine  thread-like  .splinters 
was  there  awaiting  him.  He  had  only  to  apply 
the  fire. 

He  took  his  linen  handkerchief  and  tore  it  up 
into  fine  threads,  these  he  tore  a])art  again  and 
rubbed  in  his  hand  till  they  were  almost  as  loose 
as  lint.  He  then  took  these  loose  fibres,  and  de- 
scending into  the  hold,  jjut  them  underneath  the 
pile  which  he  had  prepared.  Then  he  took  his 
pistol,  and  holding  it  close  to  the  lint  fired  it. 

The  explosion  rang  out  with  startling  force  in 
the  naiTow  hull  of  the  ship,  the  lint  received  the 
fire  and  glowed  with  the  sparks  into  spots  of  red 
heat.  Brandon  blew  with  his  breath,  and  the 
wind  streaming  down  lent  its  assistance. 

In  a  few  moments  the  work  was  done. 

It  blazed ! 

But  scarcely  had  the  first  flame  appeared  than 
a  putt"  of  wind  came  down  and  extinguished  it. 
The  sparks,  however,  were  there  yet.  It  was  as 
though  the  fickle  wind  were  tantalizing  liim — at 
one  time  helping,  at  another  baffling  him.  Once 
more  Brandon  blew.  Once  more  the  blaze  arose. 
Brandon  flung  his  coat  skirts  in  front  of  it  till  it 
might  gather  strength.  The  blaze  ran  rapidly 
through  the  fine  splints,  it  extended  itself  toward 
the  shavings,  it  threw  its  arms  upward  to  tha 
larger  sticks. 


40 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


./ 


The  dry  wood  kindled.  A  million  uparkg  flew 
out  aa  it  cracked  under  the  assault  of  the  devour- 
ing tire.  Tlie  Hame  Hprend  itttelt'  out  to  a  larger 
volume ;  it  widened,  expanded,  and  cla8))ed  the 
kindling  all  around  in  its  fervid  embrace.  The 
flame  had  been  haflied  at  first;  hut  now,  as  if  to 
assert  its  own  supremacy,  it  ni.ihcd  out  in  all  di- 
rections, with  Homething  that  !*ecmcd  uhnost  like 
exultation.  That  flame  had  on<'e  been  conquered 
by  the  waters  in  this  very  ship.  The  wood  had 
saved  the  shij)  from  the  waters.  It  was  an  though 
the  Wool)  had  once  invited  the  Fiuk  to  union, 
but  the  Water  had  stepped  in  and  prevented 
the  union  by  force ;  as  though  the  Wood,  resent- 
ing the  interference,  had  baffled  the  assaults  of 
the  Water,  and  saved  itself  intact  through  the 
long  years  for  the  embrace  of  its  first  love. 

Now  the  Fire  sought  the  Wood  once  more 
after  so  many  yuars,  und  in  ardor  unspeakable 
embraced  its  bride. 

Such  fantastic  notions  passed  through  Bran- 
don's fancy  as  he  looked  at  the  triumph  of  the 
flame.  But  he  could  not  stay  there  long,  and  as 
he  had  not  made  up  his  mind  to  give  himself  to 
the  flames  he  clambered  up  quickly  out  of  the 
hatchway  and  stood  upon  the  sand  without. 

The  smoke  was  pouring  through  the  hatchway, 
the  black  voluminous  folds  being  rendered  visible 
by  the  glow  of  the  flames  beneath,  which  now 
had  gained  the  ascendency,  and  set  all  the  winds 
at  defiance.  Indeed  it  was  so  now  that  what- 
ever wind  came  only  assisted  the  flames,  and 
Bnindon,  as  he  looked  on,  amused  himself  with 
the  thought  that  the  wind  was  like  the  world  of 
man,  which,  when  any  one  is  first  struggling, 
has  a  tendency  to  crush  him,  but  when  lie  has 
once  gained  a  foothold  exerts  all  its  efTorts  to 
help  him  along.  In  this  mood,  half  cynical,  half 
imaginative,  he  watched  the  progress  of  the 
flames. 

Soon  all  the  fine  kindling  had  crumbled  away 
at  the  touch  of  the  fire,  and  communicating  its 
own  heat  to  the  wood  around,  it  sank  down,  a 
glowing  mass,  the  foundation  of  the  rising  fires. 

Here,  from  this  central  heart  of  fire,  the  flames 
rashed  on  upon  the  wood  which  lay  loosely  on 
nil  sides,  filling  the  hull.  Through  that  wood 
the  dry  hot  wind  had  streamed  for  many  weeks, 
till  every  stave  and  every  board  had  become  dry 
to  its  utmost  possibility.  Now  at  the  first  breath 
of  the  flame  the  wood  yielded;  at  the  first  touch 
it  flared  up,  and  prepared  to  receive  the  embrace 
of  the  fire  in  every  fibre  of  its  being. 

The  flame  rolled  on.  It  threw  its  long  arms 
through  the  million  interstices  of  the  loose  piles 
of  wootl,  it  jjenetrated  every  where  with  its  sub- 
tle, far-reaching  power,  till  within  the  ship  the 
glow  broadened  and  widened,  the  central  heart 
of  fire  enlarged  its  borders,  and  the  floods  of  flame 
that  flowed  from  it  rushed  vith  consuming  fury 
through  the  whole  body  of  the  ship. 

Glowing  with  bright  lustre,  increasing  in  that 
brightness  every  moment,  leaping  up  as  it  con- 
sumed and  flashing  vividly  as  it  leaped  up.  A 
thousand  tongues  of  flame  streamed  upward 
through  the  crannies  of  the  gaping  deck,  and 
between  the  wide  orifices  of  the  pl.anks  and  tim- 
bers the  dazzling  flames  gleamed;  a  thousand 
resistless  arms  seemed  extended  forward  to  grasp 
the  fabric  now  completely  at  its  mercy,  and  the 
hot  breath  of  the  fire  shriveled  up  all  in  its  path 
before  yet  its  hands  were  laid  upon  it. 


And  fast  and  furioas,  with  eager  advanre.  tho 
flames  rushed  on  devouring  every  thing.  Through 
the  hatchway,  around  which  the  fiercest  fire* 
gathered,  the  stream  of  flame  rose  im])etuouMly 
on  high,  in  n  straight  upward  torrent,  hurling  up 
a  vast  pyramid  of  fire  to  the  ebon  skies,  a  ipXoyuQ 
fiiyav  irwyuiva  which,  like  that  which  once  il- 
lumed the  Slavonic  strait  with  the  signal-fire  first 
caught  from  buniing  'IVoy,  here  threw  its  radi- 
ance far  over  the  deep. 

While  the  lighter  wood  liwted  the  flame  was 
in  the  a.scendiuit,  and  nobly  it  did  its  work. 
Whatever  could  be  done  by  bright  radiance  and 
far-penetrating  lustre  was  done  here.  If  that 
ship  which  had  passed  held  any  men  on  board 
capable  of  feeling  a  human  interest  in  the  visible 
signs  of  ..'alamity  at  sea,  they  would  be  able  to 
reml  in  this  flame  that  there  was  disaster  some- 
where uf)on  these  waters,  and  if  they  had  human 
hearts  they  would  tuni  to  see  if  there  was  not 
some  fluttering  which  they  might  relieve. 

But  the  lighter  and  the  dryer  wood  was  at  last 
consumed,  and  now  there  remained  that  which 
Brandon  had  never  touched,  the  dense  masses 
which  still  lay  piled  where  they  had  been  placed 
eighteen  years  before.  UjX)n  these  the  fire  now 
marched.  But  olready  the  long  days  and  weeks 
of  scorching  sun  and  fierce  wind  had  not  been 
without  their  ettects,  and  the  dampness  had  been 
subdued.  Besides,  the  fire  that  advanced  upon 
them  had  already  gained  immense  ad\  antage ;  for 
one  half  of  the  brig  was  one  glowing  mass  of 
heat,  which  sent  forth  its  consuming  forces,  and 
withered  up,  and  blighted,  and  annihilated  all 
around.  The  close -bound  and  close -packed 
masses  of  staves  and  boards  received  the  resist- 
less embrace  of  the  fire,  and  where  they  did  not 
flame  they  still  gave  forth  none  the  less  a  blaze- 
less  glow. 

Now  from  the  burning  vessel  the  flame  arose 
no  more ;  but  in  its  place  there  ajipeared  that 
which  sent  forth  as  vivid  a  gleam,  and  as  far- 
flashing  a  light.  The  fire  had  full  sway,  though 
it  gave  forth  no  blaze,  and,  while  it  gleamed  but 
little,  still  it  devoured.  From  the  sides  of  the 
ship  the  i>lanks,  blasted  by  the  intense  heat  and 
by  the  outburst  of  the  flames,  had  spnmg  away, 
and  now  for  nearly  all  the  length  of  the  vessel 
■  the  timbers  were  exposed  without  any  covering. 
'  Between  these  flashed  forth  the  gleam  of  the  five 
inside,  which  now  in  one  pure  mass  glowed  witH 
dazzling  brightness  and  intense  heat. 

But  the  wood  inside,  damp  as  it  was,  and  solid 
in  its  fibre,  did  not  allow  a  very  swift  progress 
to  the  fire.  It  burned,  but  it  burned  slowly.  It 
glowed  like  the  charcoal  of  a  furnace  from  be- 
hind its  wooden  bars. 

The  massive  timbers  of  mahogany  wood  yield- 
ed slowly  and  stubbornly  to  the  conflagration. 
They  stood  up  like  iron  bars  long  after  all  the 
interior  was  one  glowing  mass.  But,  though 
they  yielded  slowly,  still  they  had  to  yield  with 
the  passage  of  hours  to  the  progress  of  the  fire. 
And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  at  length  the  strong 
sides,  sapped  by  the  steady  and  resistless  assault, 
surrendered.  One  by  one  the  stout  timbers,  now 
wasted  and  weakened,  gc:7e  way  and  sank  down 
into  the  fen-id  mass  kmeath.  At  last  the  whole 
centre  was  one  accumulation  of  glow  ing  ashes, 
and  all  that  remained  were  the  bow,  coverei 
with  sand,  and  the  ste.m,  with  the  quarter-deck. 

The  tire  spread  in  both  directions.     The  stern 


COKI)  AND  CREESE. 


41 


Yielded  first.  Here  the  Htrong  deck  siiNtaine  '  fur 
a  time  the  onset  uf  he  Ki-c  that  had  coiisuined 
CTury  thing  beneath,  hut  at  huti  ii  nunk  in;  the 
timhers  uf  th'^  sideM  followed  next,  and  all  had 
gone.  With  the  huw  ihcre  woh  a  longer  and  a 
harder  struggle.  The  tire  had  |>enetrated  fur 
into  that  piiit  of  the  vesMel;  the  liAmus  Mtnoul- 
.jered  there,  'ut  the  conflagration  went  on,  and 
{•moke  and  hlue  Hatnes  issued  from  every  part  of 
tliut  sandy  mound,  which,  fiercely  uxsailed  by  the 
heat,  gave  way  in  every  direction,  broke  into  a 
million  crevice.'*,  and  in  places  melted  and  ran  to- 
gether in  a  glowing  molten  heap.  Here  the  fires 
lAinied  longest,  and  here  they  lived  and  gleamed 
utitil  morning. 

Long  before  morning  B'-andon  had  fallen 
asleep.  He  had  stood  firt>'  near  the  burning 
wreck.  Then  the  heat  force  J  him  to  move  away, 
.ind  he  had  gone  to  a.  ridge  of  sand,  where  this 
]>eninsula  joined  the  island.  There  he  sat  down, 
w  atching  the  conflagration  for  a  long  time.  There 
the  light  flashed,  and  if  that  ship  for  whom  he 
wa.H  signaling  had  noticed  this  sign,  and  had  ex- 
amined the  island,  his  flgure  could  be  seen  to  any 
one  that  chose  to  examine. 

But  hours  passed  on.  He  strained  his  eyes 
through  the  gloom  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
ship  had  vanished  to  see  if  there  were  any  sign 
there.  None  appeared.  The  progre.'^s  of  the  fire 
was  slow.  It  went  on  burning  and  glowing  with 
wonderful  energy  all  through  the  night,  till  at 
last,  not  long  before  dawn,  the  stem  fell  in,  and 
nothing  now  was  left  but  the  sand-mound  that 
coverei'  the  bows,  which,  burning  beneath,  gave 
forth  smoke  and  fire. 

Then,  exhausted  by  itigne,  he  sank  down  on 
the  sand  and  fell  into  u.  sound  sleep. 

In  the  midst  of  thronging  dreams,  from  the 
depths  of  that  imaginary  land  where  his  weary 
spirit  wandered  in  sleep,  he  was  suddenly  roused. 
A  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  which  shook 
him  roughly,  and  a  hoarse  voice  shouted  in  his  ear, 
•'Mess-mate !    Halloo,  mess-mate !    Wake  up !" 

Brandon  started  up  and  ga^ed  with  wild,  as- 
tonished eyes  around.  It  was  day.  The  sun 
was  two  or  three  hours  above  the  horizon.  He 
was  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  seamen,  who 
were  regarding  him  with  wondering  but  kindly 
faces.  The  one  who  spoke  appeared  to  be  their 
leader.  He  held  a  spy-glass  in  his  hand.  He 
was  a  sturdy,  thick-set  man  of  about  fifty,  whose 
grizzled  hair,  weather-beaten  face,  groggy  nose, 
and  whiskers,  coming  all  round  under  his  chin, 
gave  him  the  air  of  old  Benbow  as  he  appears 
on  the  stage — "a  reg'lar  old  salt,"  "sea-dog," 
or  whatever  other  name  the  popular  taste  loves 
to  apply  to  the  British  tar. 

"  Hard  luck  here,  mess-mate,"  said  this  man, 
with  a  smile.  "  But  you're  all  right  now.  Cornel 
Cheer  up  I  Won't  you  take  a  drink  ?"'  And  he 
held  out  a  brandy-flask. 

Brandon  rose  mechanically  in  a  kind  of  maze, 
not  yet  understanding  his  good  fortune,  not  yet 
knowing  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead.  He  took 
the  flask  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  The  inspirit- 
ing draught  gave  him  new  life.  He  looked  earn- 
estly at  the  Captain  as  he  handed  it  back,  and 
then  seized  both  his  hands. 

' '  God  Almighty  bless  you  for  this,  noble  friend, 
whoever  you  are !     But  how  and  when  did  you 
get  here  ?     W^ho  are  you  ?     Did  you  not  see  my 
signal  on  the  rock  yesterday —  ?" 
C 


"  One  (piestion  at  a  timo,  mesi^'inatc, "  said  ih. 
other,  laughingly.  "  I'm  (  aptuin  (  orl.ct,  of  ihe 
ship  t'alioH,  iMiund  from  Sydney  to  London,  and 
thene  are  some  cf  niy  men.  Wo  saw  this  light 
last  night  about  midnight,  right  on  our  wcather- 
Ixiw,  and  ( ame  uj)  to  see  what  it  was.  Wc  found 
shoal  water,  and  kept  ofl'  till  morning.  There's 
the  Fulton,  Sir." 

The  Captain  waved  his  hand  proudly  to  where 
a  large,  handsome  ship  lay,  about  seven  miles 
away  to  tlie  south. 

"  On  vour  Ik)w  ?  Did  you  see  the  fire  ahead 
of  you  ?'  asked  Brandon,  who  now  began  to  com- 
prehend the  situation. 

"Yes." 

' '  Then  you  didn't  pass  me  toward  the  north 
yesterday  ?" 

"No;  never  was  near  tliis  place  before  this 
morning." 

"It  must  have  been  some  other  ship,  then," 
said  Brandon,  musingly. 

"But  how  did  you  get  here,  and 'how  long 
have  you  been  here?" 

Brandon  had  long  since  decided  on  the  part 
he  was  to  jihiy.     His  story  was  all  ready  : 

"  My  name  is  ILdward  Wheeler.  I  came  out 
sufjcrcargo  in  the  brig  Arf/o,  with  a  cargo  of 
hogshead  staves  and  box  shooks  from  London 
to  Manilla.  On  the  10th  of  September  last  we 
encountered  a  tremendous  stonn  and  struck  on 
this  sand-bank.  It  is  not  down  on  any  of  the 
charts.  The  vessel  stuck  hard  and  fast,  and 
the  sea  made  a  clean  breach  over  us.  The  cap- 
tain and  crew  put  out  the  boat,  and  tried  to  get 
away,  but  were  swamped  and  drowned.  I  staid 
by  the  wreck  till  morning.  The  vessel  stood 
the  storm  well,  for  she  had  a  solid  cargo,  was 
strongly,  built,  and  the  sand  formed  rajiidly  all 
about  her.  The  storm  lasted  for  several  tlays, 
and  by  the  end  of  that  time  c  shoal  had  formed. 
iSeveral  storms  have  occurred  >iince,  and  have 
heaped  the  sand  all  over  her.  I  have  lived  here 
ever  since  in  great  miserj'.  Yesterday  a  vessel 
passed,  and  I  put  up  a  signal  on  the  rock  over 
there,  which  she  did  not  notice.  In  despair  I 
set  fire  to  the  brig,  which  was  loaded  with  wood 
and  burned  easily.  I  vsatched  till  morning,  and 
then  fell  asleep.  You  found  me  so.  That'c  all 
I  have  to  say. " 

On  hearing  this  story  nothing  could  exceed 
the  kindness  and  sympathy  of  these  honest- 
hearted  seamen.  The  Captain  insisted  on  his 
taking  another  drink,  apologized  for  having  to 
carry  him  back  to  England,  and  finally  hurried 
him  oft'  to  the  boat.  Befoie  two  hours  Brandon 
stood  on  the  deck  of  the  Falcon, 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    MAL.IT   PIRATE. 

Two  days  had  i)assed  since  Brandon's  rescue. 
The  light  wind  which  had  brought  up  the  Falcon 
soon  died  out,  and  before  the  island  had  been 
left  far  behind  a  calm  succeeded,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  but  to  drift. 

A  calm  in  other  seas  is  stillness,  here  on  the 
Indian  Ocean  it  is  stagnation.  The  calmness  is 
like  Egyptian  darkness.  It  may  be  felt.  The 
stagnation  of  the  waters  seems  deep  enough  to 
destroy  all  life  there.  The  air  is  thick,  oppress- 
ive, feverish ;  there  is  not  a  breath  or  a  murmur 


4t 


CORP  AND  CREESE. 


.V 


jf  wind  ;  even  tho  iiwell  oi"  ooenn,  which  ia  ner- 
er-ending,  here  np|>n)arhe«  hh  near  im  |M>^il)le  to 
an  end.  The  ocean  rolled  but  Mlightly,  hut  the 
light  undulationa  gave  a  lazy,  liHtleita  motion  to 
the  ship,  the  »]Mn  creaked  monotonouiily,  and 
the  great  fuiiis  Hapfieil  idly  in  the  air. 

At  iuch  a  time  the  calm  itself  is  »ufBcient- 
Ij  dreary,  hut  now  there  waij  Hoiuething  which 
made  nil  thmgn  still  more  drear.  For  the  calm 
was  atteiKled  by  a  thick  fog ;  not  iv  nioi:<t,  driz- 
sling  fog  like  those  of  tho  North  Atlantic,  but  a 
Bultry,  dense,  dry  fog;  a  fog  whi<h  giive  greater 
cmphasix  to  the  hent,  and,  inHtcod  of  alleviating 
it,  made  it  more  oppreH.sive. 

It  watt  fu)  thick  tnat  it  was  not  possilile  while 
standing  at  the  wheel  to  see  the  forecastle. 
Aloft,  nil  the  heavens  were  hidden  in  a  canojjy 
c.f  sickly  gray;  beneath,  the  sea  showed  the 
same  color.  Its  glassy  surface  exhibited  not  a 
ripple.  A  small  space  only  surrounded  the  ves- 
sel, and  Iwyond  all  things  were  lost  to  view. 

The  sailors  were  scattered  about  the  ship  in 
groups.  S>mo  had  ascended  to  the  tops  with  a 
faint  hope  of  finding  more  air;  some  were  lying 
lint  on  their  faces  on  tiie  forecastle ;  others  had 
sought  those  ]>laces  which  were  under  the  sails 
where  the  occasional  flap  of  the  broad  canvas 
sent  down  a  slight  current  of  air. 

The  Captain  was  standing  on  the  quarter-deck, 
while  Brantlon  was  seated  on  a  stool  near  the 
wheel.  He  had  been  treated  by  the  Captain  with 
unbounded  hospitality,  and  supplied  with  every 
thing  that  lie  could  wish. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  the  Captain,  who  had 
been  conversing  with  Brandon,  "I  don't  like 
calms  any  where,  still  less  calms  witli  fogs,  and 
least  of  all,  calms  off  these  infernal  islands. " 

"Why?" 

"Because  to  the  north'ard  is  the  Strait  of 
Sunda,  and  the  Malay  pirates  are  always  cruis- 
ing about,  often  as  far  as  this.  Did  you  ever 
happen  to  hear  of  Zangorri  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  if  yon  hadn't  been 
wrecked,  you'd  have  probably  had  your  throat 
eut  by  that  devil." 

"Can't  any  body  catch  him?" 

"  They  don't  catch  him  at  any  rate.  Wheth- 
er they  can  or  not  is  another  question. " 

"Have  you  arms?" 

"Yes.  I've  got  enough  to  give  Zangorri  a 
pleasanter  reception  than  he  usually  gets  from  a 
merchant-ship ;  and  my  lads  are  the  boys  that 
can  use  them." 

"I  wonder  what  has  become  of  that  other 
ship  that  passed  me  on  the  island,"  said  Bran- 
don, after  a  pause. 

"  She  can't  be  very  far  away  from  us,"  replied 
the  Captain,  "and  we  may  come  up  wit),  her 
before  we  get  to  the  Cape." 

A  silence  followed.  Suddenly  the  Captain's 
attention  was  arrested  by  something.  He  raised 
his  hand  to  his  ear  and  listened  veiy  attentively. 
"Do  you  hear  that?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

Brandon  arose  and  walked  to  where  the  Cap- 
tain was.  Then  both  listened.  And  over  the 
sea  there  came  unmistakable  sounds.  The  regu- 
lar movement  of  oars !  Oars  out  on  the  Indian 
Oceai  '     Yet  the  sound  was  unmistakable. 

"It  must  be  some  poor  devils  that  have  es- 
caped from  shipwreck,"  said  the  Captain,  half  to 
himself. 


"Well,  Are  a  gun.- 

"No,"  Mid  the  Captain,  cautiously,  after  a 


CRUM. 
it." 


'It  may  be  aomelKxl;   else.     Wait  a 


Ho  they  waited  a  little  while.  Hnddenly  there 
came  a  cry  of  human  voices — a  volley  of  guns  1 
Shrieks,  yells  of  defiance,  shouts  of  triumph, 
howls  of  rage  or  of  pain,  all  softened  by  the  dis- 
tance, and  all  in  their  unison  soimding  appalling- 
Iv  as  they  were  borne  through  the  gl(Mjm  of  tho 
fog- 
Instantly  every  man  in  the  ship  Imunded  to  his 
feet.  They  hail  not  heard  the  Hrst  sounds,  but 
these  they  heard,  and  in  that  su)>erstitit)n  which 
is  natural  to  the  sailor,  esch  man's  first  thought 
was  that  the  noises  came  from  the  sky,  and  so 
each  looked  with  a  stujicficd  countenance  at  his 
neighbor. 

But  the  Captain  did  not  share  the  common 
feeling.  "I  knew  it!"  he  cried.  "I  ex|)ected 
it,  and  blow  my  old  eyes  out  if  I  don't  catch  'em 
this  time!" 

"What?"  cried  Brandon. 

But  the  Captain  did  not  hear.  Instantly  his 
whole  demeanor  was  changed.  He  N|irang  to 
the  companion-way.  He  spoke  but  one  wonl, 
not  in  a  loud  voice,  but  in  tones  so  stem,  so 
startling,  that  every  man  in  the  ship  heard  the 
word: 

"Zangorri!" 

All  knew  what  it  meant.  It  meant  that  the 
most  blood-thirsty  pirate  of  these  Eastern  neas 
was  attacking  some  ship  behind  that  veil  of  fog. 

And  what  ship?  This  was  the  thought  that 
came  to  Brandon.  •  Could  it  l)y  any  possibility 
be  the  one  which  passed  by  him  when  he  strove 
so  earnestly  to  gain  her  attention ! 

"Out  with  the  long-boat!  Load  the  cr.i- 
ronade!  Man  the  boat!  Hurry  up,  iuus,  for 
God's  sake!"  And  the  Cai)tain  dashed  down 
into  the  cabin.  In  an  instant  he  was  back  again, 
buckling  on  a  belt  with  a  couple  of  jnstols  in  it, 
and  calling  tc  his  men,  "Don't  shout,  don't 
cheer,  but  Ifurrj',  for  God's  sake!" 

And  the  men  rushed  about,  some  collecting 
arms,  others  laboring  at  the  boat.  The  Falcon 
was  well  suprilied  with  anns,  as  the  Captain  had 
said.  Three  guns,  any  quantity  of  smaller  arms, 
and  a  long  Tom,  formed  her  armament,  while 
the  long-boat  had  a  carronade  in  her  bows. 
Thanks  to  the  snug  and  orderly  arrangement  of 
tho  ship,  every  thing  was  soon  ready.  The  long- 
boat was  out  and  afloat.  All  the  seamen  except 
four  were  on  baird,  and  the  Captain  went  dov/n 
last. 

"Now,  pull  away,  lads!"  he  cried ;  "no  talk- 
ing," and  he  took  the  tiller  ropes.  As  lie  seated 
himself  he  looked  toward  the  bows,  and  his  eyes 
encountered  the  calm  face  of  Brandon. 

"  What !  you  here  ?"  he  cried,  with  unmistak- 
able delight. 

Brandon's  reply  consisted  simply  in  drawing 
a  revolver  from  his  pocket. 

"  You're  a  brick !"  said  the  Captain. 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  The  Captain 
steered  the  boat  toward  the  direction  from  which 
the  sounds  came.  These  grew  louder  every  mo- 
ment— more  menacing,  and  more  terrible. 

The  sailors  put  all  their  strength  to  the  oais, 
and  drove  the  great  boat  through  the  water.  To 
their  impatience  it  seemed  as  though  they  wnu!  1 
never  get  there.    Yet  the  place  which  they  desi;  ed 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


m  much  to  reneh  wu  not  fu  away ;  the  •onnd.H 
wen;  now  very  near ;  and  at  length,  aa  they  drove 
onward,  the  tall  xideit  of  a  ithip  hunt  on  their 
tight  through  the  gloom.  By  itit  Hide  wan  a  boat 
of  the  kind  that  ist  u»ed  hy  the  MalayH.  On  board 
the  nhip  a  Urge  number  of  Ravage  tigurea  were 
ruahing  about  in  mad  ferocity. 

In  a  moment  the  '  "tat  wu  seen.  A  shout  rose 
from  the  Malaya.  A  score  of  them  clambered 
■wit\ly  down  the  ibip's  side  to  their  boat,  nnd  a 
l>anic  seemed  to  seize  all  the  rest,  who  stood 
looking  around  irresolutely  for  some  way  of  es- 
cape. 

The  boatswain  was  in  the  bows  of  the  long- 
b(yit,  and  as  the  Malays  crowded  into  their  craft 
he  took  aim  with  the  carronade,  and  fired.  The 
explosion  thundered  through  the  air.  A  terrific 
shriek  followe<l.  The  next  instant  the  Malay 
boat,  filled  with  writhing  duitky  figures,  went 
down  beneath  the  waterH. 

The  long-boat  immediately  after  touched  the 
side  of  the  ship.  Hrandon  gras|)ed  a  rope  with 
his  left  bund,  and,  holding  his  revolver  in  his 
right,  leaped  upward.  A  Malay  with  uplifted 
knife  struck  at  him.  Bang !  went  the  revolver, 
and  the  Malay  fell  dead.  The  next  instant 
Brandon  was  on  board,  followed  by  all  the  sail- 
ors, who  sprang  upward  and  clambered  into  the 
vessel  before  the  Malays  could  rail;'  from  the 
first  shock  of  8uq)rise. 

But  the  panic  was  arrested  by  a  man  who 
bounded  u])on  deck  through  the  hatchway. 
Housed  by  the  noise  of  the  gun,  he  had  hurried 
up,  and  reached  the  deck  just  as  the  sailors 
arrived.  In  fierce,  stern  words  he  shouted  to 
his  men,  and  the  Malays  gathered  new  courage 
from  his  words.  There  were  about  fifty  of  these, 
and  not  more  than  thirty  English  sailors;  but 
the  former  had  carelessly  dropped  their  arms 
nhout,  and  most  of  their  pieces  were  unload- 
ed; the  latter,  therefore,  had  it  all  their  own 
way. 

The  first  thing  that  they  did  was  to  pour  a  vol- 
ley into  the  crowd  of  Malays,  as  they  stood  try- 
ing to  face  their  new  enemy.  The  next  moment 
the  sailors  rushed  upon  them,  some  with  cutlass- 
es, some  with  pistols,  and  some  with  clubbed 
muskets. 

The  Malays  resisted  desperately.  Some  fought 
with  their  creeses,  others  snatched  up  muskets, 
and  used  them  vigorously,  others,  unarmed,  flung 
themselves  upon  their  assailants,  biting  and  tear- 
ing like  wild  beasts. 

Ill  the  midst  of  the  scene  stood  the  chief,  wield- 
ing a  clubbed  musket.  He  was  a  man  of  short 
stature,  broad  chest,  and  great  muscular  power. 
Three  or  four  of  the  sailors  had  already  been 
knocked  down  beneath  his  blows. 

"Down  with  him ! '"  yelled  the  Captain.  "It's 
Zangorri!" 

A  venomous  smile  parsed  over  the  dark  face 
of  the  Malay.  Then  he  shouted  to  his  men,  and 
in  an  instant  they  rushed  to  the  quarter-deck  and 
took  up  a  position  there.  A  few  of  them  ob- 
tained some  more  muskets  that  lay  about. 

The  Captain  shouted  to  his  men,  who  were 
pursuing  the  Malays,  to  load  once  more.  They 
did  so,  poured  in  a  volley,  and  then  rushed  to  the 
quarter-deck.  Now  a  fiercer  fight  took  place. 
The  Captain  with  his  pistol  shot  one  man  dead ; 
the  next  instant  he  was  knocked  down.  The 
boatswain  was  grappled  by  two  powerful  men. 


The  rest  of  the  sailoni  were  driving  all  before 
them. 

Meanwhile  Brandon  had  t>ecii  in  the  very  cen- 
tre  of  the  fight.  With  hi*  revolver  in  his  Ivft 
hand  he  held  a  cutlass  in  his  right,  and  everv 
blow  that  ho  gave  tojd.  He  hod  sought  all 
through  the  struggle  to  reach  the  spot  where 
Zangorri  stood,  but  had  hitherto  been  uniac- 
cessful.  At  the  retreat  which  the  Malays  made 
he  hastily  loail>-d  three  of  the  chambers  of  his 
revolver  which  he  had  emptied  into  the  hearts 
of  three  Malavs,  and  spnisig  u^Min  the  quarter- 
d<3ck  first.  The  man  .^ho  struck  down  theCa|>- 
b^'n  fell  dead  from  Brandon's  pistol,  just  as  he 
stooped  to  plunge  his  knife  into  the  heart  of  the 
prostrate  man.  Another  shot  sent  over  one  of 
the  boatswain's  assailants,  and  the  other  assail- 
ant was  kicked  up  into  the  air  and  overboard  by 
the  boatswain  himself. 

After  this  Brandon  had  no  more  trouble  to 
get  at  ZangoiTi,  for  the  Malay  chief  with  a  howl 
pf  fury  called  on  his  men,  and  sprang  at  him. 
Two  (juick  flashes,  two  sharji  reports,  and  down 
went  two  of  them.  Zangorri  grasped  Brandt  ns 
hand,  and  raised  his  knife  ;  the  next  instant 
Brandon  had  shifted  his  pistol  to  his  other  hand  ; 
he  fired,  Zangorri's  arm  fell  by  his  side,  broken, 
and  the  knife  rang  on  the  ship's  deck. 

Brandon  bounded  at  his  throat.  He  wound 
his  arms  around  hi  ,  and  with  a  tremendous  jerk 
hurled  Zangorri  to  the  deck,  and  held  him  there. 

A  cr}'  of  terror  and  dismay  arose  from  the  Ma- 
lays as  they  saw  their  chief  fall.  The  sailors 
shouted;  there  was  no  further  fighting;  some 
of  the  pirates  were  killed,  others  leaped  over- 
board and  tried  to  swim  away.  The  sailors,  in 
their  fury,  shot  at  tliese  wretches  as  they  swam. 
The  cruelty  of  Zangorri  had  stimulated  such  a 
thirst  for  vengeance  that  none  thought  of  giving 
quarter.  Oiit  of  all  the  Malays  the  only  one 
alive  was  Zangorri  himself,  who  now  lay  gasj)- 
ing,  with  a  mig{ity  hand  on  his  throat. 

At  last,  as  his  struggles  grew  feebler,  Brandon 
relaxed  his  grasp.  Some  of  the  sailors  came  up 
with  uplifted  knives  to  put  an  end  to  Zangorri. 
"Back!" cried  Brandon,  fiercely.  "Don't touch 
him.     He's  mine ! " 

"He  must  die." 

"That's  for  me  to  say,"  cried  Brandon  in  a 
stem  voice  that  forbade  reply.  In  fact,  the  sailors 
seemed  to  feel  that  he  had  the  best  claim  here, 
since  he  had  not  only  captured  Zangorri  with  his 
own  hands,  but  had  borne  the  chief  share  in  the 
fight. 

"Englishman."  said  a  voice,  "I  thank  yon.'' 

Brandon  started. 

It  was  Zangorri  who  had  spoken ;  and  in  very 
fail'  English  too. 

"Do  you  speak  English?"  was  all  that  he 
could  say  in  his  surprise. 

"I  ought  to.  I've  seen  enough  of  them," 
growled  the  other. 

"  You  scoundrel !"  cried  Brandon,  "you  have 
nothing  to  thank  me  for.  You  must  die  a  worse 
death." 

'  •  Ah, "  sneered  Zangorri.  ' '  Well.  It's  about 
time.  But  my  death  will  not  pay  for  the  hun- 
dreds of  English  lives  that  I  have  taken.  I  thank 
you,  though,  for  you  will  give  me  time  yet  to  tell 
the  Englishmen  how  I  hate  them." 

And  the  expression  of  hate  that  gleamed  from 
the  eyes  of  the  Malay  was  appalling. 


I* 


CORD  AND  CUEESE. 


.J 


"Why  do  you  hate  them?"  asked  Brandon, 
whosa  curiosity  was  excited. 

"My  brother's  blood  was  shed  by  them,  and 
a  Malay  never  forgives.  Yet  I  have  never  found 
the  man  I  sought.  If  I  had  found  him  I  would 
not  have  killed  any  more. " 

"The  man — what  man?" 

•'The  one  whom  I  have  sought  for  fifteen 
years  through  all  these  seas,"  said  the  other, 
hoarsely. 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"  I  will  not  speak  it.  I  had  it  carved  on  my 
creese  which  hangs  around  my  neck. " 

Brandon  thrust  his  hand  into  the  bosom  of  the 
Malay  where  he  saw  a  cord  which  passed  around 
liis  neck.  He  drew  forth  a  creese,  and  holding 
it  up  sawthis  name  cut  upon  the  handle :  "JOHN 
POTTS." 

The  change  that  came  over  the  severe,  im- 
passive face  of  Brandon  was  so  extraordinary 
that  even  Zangorri  in  his  pain  and  fury  saw  it. 
He  uttered  an  exclamation.  The  brow  of  Bran- 
don grew  as  black  as  night,  his  nostrils  quivered, 
his  eyes  seemed  to  blaze  with  a  terrific  lustre,  and 
a  sUght  foam  spread  itself  over  his  quivering  lips. 
But  he  commanded  himself  by  a  violent  eftbrt. 

He  looked  all  around.  The  sailors  were  busy 
with  the  Captain,  who  still  lay  senseless.  No  one 
observed  him.     He  tunied  to  Zangorri. 

"This  shall  be  mine,"  said  he,  and  he  threw 
the  cord  around  his  own  neck,  and  put  the  creese 
under  his  waistcoat.  But  the  sharp  eye  of  the 
Malay  had  been  watching  him,  and  as  he  raised 
his  arm  carelessly  to  put  the  weapon  where  he 
desired,  he  thoughtlessly  loosed  his  hold.  That 
instant  Zangorri  took  advantage  of  it.  By  a 
tremendous  effort  he  disengaged  himself  and 
bounded  to  his  feet,  il^o  ne"^i-  instant  he  was 
at  the  taffrail.  One  hasty  glance  all  around 
showed  him  all  that  he  wished  to  see.  Another 
moment  and  he  was  beneath  the  water. 

Brandon  had  been  taken  unawares,  and  the 
Malay  was  in  the  water  before  he  could  think. 
But  he  drew  his  revolver,  in  which  there  yet  re- 
mained two  shots,  and,  stepping  to  the  taft'rail, 
watched  for  Zangorri  to  reappear. 

During  the  fight  a  change  had  come  over  the 
scene.  The  fog  had  begun  to  be  dissipated  and 
a  wider  horzon  appeared.  As  Brandon  looked 
he  saw  tw  ^  vessels  upon  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  sea.  One  was  the  Fakon.  The  other  was  a 
large  Malay  proa.  On  tne  decks  of  this  last  was 
a  crowd  of  men,  perhaps  about  fifty  in  number, 
who  stood  looking  toward  the  ship  where  the 
fight  had  been.  The  sweeps  were  out,  and  they 
were  preparing  to  move  away.  But  the  escape 
of  Zangorri  had  aroused  them,  and  they  were 
evidently  waiting  to  see  the  result.  That  result 
lay  altogether  at  the  disposal  of  the  man  with 
the  revolver,  who  stood  at  the  stem  from  which 
Zangorri  had  leaped. 

And  now  Zangorri's  head  appeared  above  the 
waves,  while  he  took  a  long  breath  ere  he  plunged 
again.  The  revolver  covered  him.  In  a  mo- 
ment a  bullet  could  have  plunged  into  his  brain. 

But  Brandon  did  not  fire.  He  could  not.  It 
was  too  cold-blooded.  True,  Zangorri  was 
stained  with  countless  crimes ;  but  all  his  crimes 
at  that  moment  were  forgotten :  he  did  not  appear 
as  Zangorri  the  merciless  pirate,  but  simply  as  a 
wounded  wretch,  trying  to  escape  from  death. 
That  death  Brandon  could  not  deal  him. 


The  sailors  were  still  intent  upon  the  Captain, 
whose  state  was  critical,  and  Brandon  alone 
watched  the  Malay.  Soon  he  saw  those  on 
board  the  proa  send  down  a  boat  and  row  quick- 
ly toward  him.  They  reached  him,  dragged 
him  on  board,  and  then  rowed  back. 

Brandon  turned  away.  As  yet  no  one  had 
been  in  the  cabin.  He  hurried  thither  to  see  if 
perchance  any  one  was  there  who  might  be  saved. 

He  entered  the  cabin.  The  first  look  which 
he  gave  disclosed  a  sight  which  was  enough  to 
chill  the  blood  of  the  stoutest  heart  that  ever  beat. 

All  around  the  cabin  lay  human  bodies  dis- 
torted by  the  agonies  of  death,  twisted  and 
twined  in  different  attitudes,  and  still  lying  in 
the  position  in  which  death  had  found  them. 

One,  whose  appearance  showed  him  to  be  the 
captain,  lay  grasping  the  hair  of  a  Malay,  with 
his  sword  through  his  enemy's  heart,  while  a 
knife  still  remained  buried  in  his  own.  Another 
lay  with  his  head  cut  open ;  another  with  his  face 
torn  by  the  explosion  of  a  gun.  There  were 
four  whites  here  and  about  ten  Malays,  all  dead. 
But  the  fourth  white  was  a  woman,  who  lay 
dead  in  front  of  a  door  that  led  to  an  inner 
cabin,  and  which  was  now  closed.  The  woman 
appeared  to  be  about  fifty  years  of  age,  her  ven- 
erable gray  hair  was  stained  with  blood,  and  her 
hand  clutched  the  arm  of  a  Malay  who  lay  dead 
by  her  side. 

While  Brandon  stood  looking  at  this  sight  he 
became  aware  of  a  movement  in  a  comer  of  the 
cabin  where  there  were  five  or  six  bodies  heaped 
together.  He  hurried  over  to  the  place,  and, 
pulling  away  the  bodies  of  several  Malays,  found 
at  length  a  Hindu  of  large  stature,  in  whom  life 
was  by  no  means  extinct,  for  he  was  pushing 
with  hands  and  feet  and  making  faint  efforts  to 
rise.  He  had  been  wounded  in  many  places, 
and  was  now  quite  unconscious. 

Brandon  dragged  away  all  the  bodies,  laid 
him  in  as  easy  a  posture  as  possible,  and  then 
rushed  up  to  the  deck  for  some  water.  Ke- 
turning  he  dashed  it  over  the  Hindu,  and  bound 
up  one  or  two  wounds  which  seemed  most  dan- 
gerous. 

His  care  soon  brought  the  Hindu  to  conscious- 
ness. 

The  man  opened  his  eyes,  looked  upon  Bran- 
don first  with  astonishment,  then  with  speechless 
gratitude,  and  clasping  his  hand  moaned  faintly, 
in  broken  P^nglish, 

" Bless  de  Lor!  Sahib!" 

Brandon  hurried  up  on  deck  and  calling  some 
of  the  sailors  had  the  Hindu  conveyed  there. 
All  crowded  around  him  to  ask  him  questions, 
and  gradually  found  out  about  the  attack  of 
the  pirates.  The  ship  had  been  bec^med  the 
day  before,  and  the  Malay  proa  was  in  sight,  evi- 
dently with  evil  intentions.  They  had  kept  a 
good'watch,  and  when  the  fog  came  had  some 
hope  of  escape.  But  the  Malay  boats  had  sought 
them  through  the  fog,  and  had  found  them. 
They  had  resisted  well,  but  were  overpowered  by 
numbers.  The  Hindu  had  been  cook  of  the  ship, 
and  had  fought  till  the  last  by  the  side  of  his  cap- 
tain. 

Without  waiting  to  hear  the  Hindu's  story 
Brandon  went  back  to  the  cabin.  The  door  that 
opened  into  the  inner  cabin  was  shut.  He  tried 
it.  It  was  locked.  He  looked  into  the  keyhole. 
It  was  locked  from  the  inside. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


4» 


SHE    FLUNG    HERSELF   OX   HER    KNEES    IN   A   TRANSPORT  OF  GRATITUDE. 


" Is  any  one  there?"  he  asked. 

A  cry  of  surpriue  was  the  sole  answer, 

"You  are  safe.  We  are  friends.  Open!" 
cried  Brandon. 

Then  came  the  sound  of  light  footsteps,  the 
key  was  turned,  the  door  slided  back,  and  there 
appeared  before  the  astonished  eyes  of  Brandon 
a  young  girl,  who,  the  moment  that  she  saw  him, 
flung  herself  on  her  knees  in  a  transport  of  grati- 
tude and  raised  her  face  to  Heaven,  while  her  lips 
uttered  inaudible  words  of  thanksgiving. 

She  was  quite  a  young  girl,  with  a  delicate, 
slender  frame,  and  features  of  extreme  loveliness. 
Her  complexion  was  singularly  colorless.  Her 
eyes  were  large,  dark,  and  luminous.  Her  hair 
fell  in  rich  masses  over  her  shoulders.  In  one 
hand  she  held  a  knife,  to  which  she  clung  with  a 
death-like  tenacity. 

"Poor  child !"  murmured  Brandon,  in  accents 
of  tenderest  commiseration.  "It  is  but  little 
that  you  could  do  with  that  knife. " 

She  looked  up  at  him  as  she  knelt,  then  looked 
at  the  keen  glittering  steel,  and,  with  a  solemnity 
of  accent  which  showed  how  deeply  she  was  in 
earnest,  murmured,  half  to  herself, 

"  It  could  at  least  have  saved  me  I" 

Brandon  smiled  upon  her  with  such  a  smile  as 


a  father  might  give  at  seeing  the  spirit  or  prowess 
of  some  idolized  son. 

j  •  "  There  is  no  need,"  he  said,  with  a  voice  of 
i  deep  feeling,   "there  is  no  need  of  that  now. 
I  You  are  saved.     You  are  avenged.     Come  with 
■  me."     The  girl  rose.     "But  wait,"  said  Bran- 
don, and  he  looked  at  her  earnestly  and  most 
pityingly.     "There  are  things  here  which  you 
;  should  not  see.     Will  you  shut  your  eyes  and  let 
me  lead  you  ?" 

"I  can  bear  it,"  said  the  girl.  "I  will  not 
shut  my  eyes." 

"You  must,"  said  Brandon,  firmly,  but  still 
'  pityingly,  for  he  thought  of  that  venerable  w 
man  who  lay  in  blood  outside  the  door.  The 
girl  looked  at  him  and  seemed  at  first  as  though 
about  to  refuse.  There  was  something  in  his 
face  so  full  of  compassion,  and  entreaty,  and 
calm  control,  that  she  consented.  She  closed  her 
eyes  and  held  out  her  hand.  Brandon  took  it 
and  led  her  through  the  place  of  horror  and  up 
to  the  deck. 

Her  appearance  was  greeted  with  a  cry  of  joy 
from  all  the  sailors.  The  girl  looked  around.  She 
saw  the  Malays  lying  dead  ujwn  the  deck.  She 
saw  the  ship  that  had  rescued,  and  the  prca  that 
had  terrified  her.    But  she  saw  no  familiar  face. 


46 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


She  turned  to  Brandon  with  a  face  of  horror, 
and  with  white  lips  asked  : 

' '  Where  are  they  all  ?" 

"Gone,"  said  Brandon. 

"  What !     All  ?"  gasped  the  girl. 

"All — except  yourself  and  the  cook." 

She  shuddered  from  head  to  foot;  at  last, 
coming  closer  to  Brandon,  she  whispered :  "And 
my  nurse —  ?" 

Brandon  said  nothing,  but,  vrith  a  face  full  of 
meaning,  pointed  upward.  The  girl  understood 
him.  She  reeled,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not 
Brandon  supported  her.  Then  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and,  staggering  away  to  a 
seat,  sank  down  and  wejit  bitterly. 

AJl  were  silent.  Even  the  rough  sailors  re- 
spected that  grief.  Rough !  Who  does  not  know 
that  sailors  are  often  the  most  tender-hearted  of 
men,  and  always  the  most  impulsive,  and  most 
quick  to  sympathy  ? 

So  now  they  said  nothing,  but  stood  in  groups 
sorrowing  in  her  sorrow.  The  Captain,  mean- 
while, had  revived,  and  was  already  on  his  feet 
looking  around  upon  the  scene.  The  Hindu 
also  had  gained  strength  witli  every  throb  of  his 
heart  and  every  breath  of  the  air. 

But  suddenly  a  cry  arose  from  one  of  the  men 
who  stood  nearest  the  hatchway. 

"  The  ship  is  sinking !" 

Every  one  started.  Yes,  the  ship  was  sink- 
ing. No  one  had  noticed  it ;  but  the  water  was 
already  within  a  few  feet  of  the  top.  No  doubt 
Zangorri  had  been  scuttling  her  when  he  rushed 
out  of  the  hold  at  the  noise  of  the  attack. 

There  was  nothing  left  but  to  hasten  away. 
There  was  time  to  save  nothing.  The  bodies  of 
the  dead  had  to  be  left  with  the  ship  for  their 
tomb.  In  a  short  time  they  had  all  hurried  into 
the  boat  and  were  pulling  away.  But  not  too 
soon.  For  scarcely  had  they  pulled  away  half 
a  dozen  boat-lengths  from  the  ship  than  the  wa- 
ter, which  had  been  rising  higher  and  higher, 
more  rapidly  eveiy  moment,  rushed  madly  with 
a  final  onset  to  secure  its  prey ;  end  with  a  groan 
like  that  of  some  living  thing  the  ship  went 
down. 

A  yell  came  from  over  the  water.  It  rose 
from  the  Malay  proa,  which  was  moving  away  ifs 
fast  as  the  long  sweeps  could  carry  her.  But  the 
dead  were  not  revenged  only.  They  were  re- 
membered. Not  long  after  reaching  the  Falcon 
the  sailors  were  summoned  to  the  side  which 
looked  toward  the  spot  where  the  ship  had  sunk, 
and  the  solemn  voice  of  Brandon  read  the  burial- 
service  of  the  Church. 

And  as  he  read  that  service  he  understood  the 
fate  which  he  had  escaped  when  the  ship  passed 
Coffin  Island  without  noticing  his  signal. 


CHAPTER  X. 

BEATRICE. 


It  was  natural  that  a  young  girl  who  had  gone 
through  so  fearful  an  ordeal  should  for  some  time 
feel  its  effects.  Her  situation  excited  the  warm- 
est sympathy  of  all  on  board  the  ship ;  and  her 
appearance  was  such  as  might  inspire  a  chival- 
rous respect  in  the  hearts  of  those  rough  but 
kindly  and  sensitive  sailors  who  had  taken  part 
in  her  rescue. 


Her  whole  appearance  marked  her  as  one  of 
no  common  order.  There  was  about  her  an  air 
of  aristocratic  grace  which  inspired  involuntary 
respect;  an  elegance  of  manner  and  complete 
self-possession  which  marked  perfect  breeding. 
Added  to  this,  her  face  had  something  which  is 
greater  even  than  beauty — or  at  least  something 
without  which  beauty  itself  is  feeble — namely, 
character  and  expression.  Her  soul  spoke  out 
in  every  lineament  of  her  noble  features,  and 
threw  around  her  the  charm  of  spiritual  exalta- 
tion. 

To  such  a  charm  as  this  Brandon  did  not  seem 
indiflerent.  His  usual  self-abstraction  seemed 
to  desert  him  for  a  time.  The  part  that  he  had 
taken  in  her  rescue  of  itself  formed  a  tie  between 
them;  but  there  was  another  bond  in  the  fact 
that  he  alone  of  all  on  board  could  associate  with 
her  on  equal  terms,  as  a  high-bred  gentleman  with 
a  high-bred  lady. 

The  Hindu  had  at  once  found  occupation,  for 
Brandon,  who  had  seen  the  stuff"  that  was  in  him, 
offered  to  take  him  for  his  servant.  He  said  that 
his  name  was  Assgeelo,  but  he  was  commonly 
called  Cato,  and  jjreferred  that  name  to  any  oth- 
er. He  regarded  Brandon  as  his  saviour,  with 
all  the  superstition  which  Hindus  can  feel,  and 
looked  up  to  this  saviour  as  a  superior  being.  The 
offer  of  employment  was  eagerly  accepted,  and 
Cato  at  once  entered  upon  the  few  duties  which 
his  situation  could  require  on  ship-board. 

Meanwhile  the  young  lady  remained  unknown. 
At  first  she  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  time  in 
her  room,  and  only  came  out  at  meal-times,  when 
the  sadness  of  her  face  prevented  any  thing  ex- 
cept the  most  distant  and  respectful  courtesy. 
No  one  knew  her  name,  and  no  one  asked  it. 
Cato  was  ignorant  of  it.  She  and  the  old  nurse 
had  only  been  known  to  him  as  the  young  missis 
and  the  old  missis. 

Brandon,  roused  from  his  indifference,  did  all 
in  his  power  to  mitigate  the  gloom  of  this  fair 
I  young  creature,  whom  fate  had  thrown  in  his 
I  way.  He  found  that  his  attentions  were  not  un- 
!  acceptable.  At  length  she  came  out  more  fre- 
j  quently,  and  they  became  companions  on  the 
;  quarter-deck. 

j      Brandon  was  touched  by  the  exhibition  which 

she  had  made  of  her  gratitude  to  himself.     She 

persisted  in  regarding  him  alone  as  the  one  to 

1  whom  she  owed  her  life,  and  apologized  to  him 

for  her  selfishness  in  giving  way  so  greatly  to  her 

grief.     After  a  time  she  ventured  to  tell  him  the 

:  story  of  the  voyage  which  she  had  been  making. 

I  She  was  on  her  way  from  China  to  Engl^-nd. 

\  Her  father  lived  in  England,  but  she  had  passed 

her  life  in  Hong-Kong,  having  been  brought  up 

there  by  the  old  nurse,  who  had  accompanied 

her  on  her  voyage  until  that  fearful  calamity. 

She  told  him  at  different  times  that  her  father 
was  a  merchant  who  had  business  all  over  the 
world,  and  that  he  had  of  late  taken  up  his  sta- 
tion in  his  own  home  and  sent  for  her. 

Of  her  father  she  did  not  say  much,  and  did 
not  seem  to  kn  w  much.  She  had  never  seen 
[  him.  She  had  been  in  Hong-Kong  ever  since 
;  she  could  remember.  She  believed,  however, 
j  that  she  was  bom  in  England,  but  did  not  know 
i  for  certain.  Her  nurse  had  not  known  her  till 
^  she  had  gone  to  China. 

1      It  was  certainly  a  curious  life,  but  quite  nat- 
1  nral,  when  a  busy  merchant  devotes  all  hia 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


47 


thoughts  to  basiness,  and  but  little  attention  to 
liis  family.  She  had  no  mother,  but  thought  she 
must  have  died  in  India.  Yet  she  was  not  sure. 
( )f  all  this,  however,  she  expected  to  hear  when 
she  reached  home  and  met  her  father. 

By  the  time  that  she  had  been  a  month  on 
board  Brandon  knew  much  of  the  events  of  her 
simple  life.  He  saw  the  strange  mixture  of  fear 
iind  longing  with  which  she  looked  forward  to  a 
meeting  with  her  father.  He  learned  that  she 
had  a  brother,  also,  whom  she  had  never  seen, 
for  her  father  kept  his  son  with  himself.  He 
could  not  help  looking  with  inexpressiole  pity  on 
one  so  lovely,  yet  so  neglected. 

Otherwise,  as  far  as  mere  money  was  con- 
cerned, she  had  never  suft'ered.  Her  accom- 
])Iishments  were  numerous.  She  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  music,  and  was  familiar  with  all 
tlie  classic  compositions.  Her  voice  was  finely 
trained,  for  she  had  enjoyed  the  advantage  of 
the  instructions  of  an  Italian  maestro,  who  had 
been  banished,  and  had  gone  out  to  Hong-Kong 
as  band-master  in  the  Twentieth  Regiment.  She 
could  speak  French  fluently,  and  had  read  al- 
most every  thing. 

Now  after  finding  out  all  this  Brandon  had 
not  found  out  her  name.  Embarrassments 
arose  sometimes,  which  she  could  not  help  no- 
ticing, from  this  very  cause,  and  yet  she  said 
nothing  about  it.  Brandon  did  not  like  to  ask 
her  abruptly^  since  he  saw  that  she  did  not  re- 
sjjond  to  his  hints.  So  he  conjectured  and  won- 
dered. He  thought  that  her  name  must  be  of 
the  lordliest  kind,  and  that  she  for  some  reason 
wished  to  keep  it  a  secret ;  perhaps  she  was  no- 
ble, and  did  not  like  to  tell  that  name  which  had 
been  stained  by  the  occupations  of  trade.  All 
this  Brandon  thought. 

Yet  as  he  thought  this,  he  was  not  insensible 
tof  the  music  of  her  soft,  low  voice,  the  liquid 
tenderness  of  her  eye,  and  the  charm  of  her 
manner.  She  seemed  at  once  to  confide  herself 
to  him — to  own  the  superiority  of  his  nature, 
and  seek  shelter  in  it.  Circumstances  threw 
them  exclusively  into  one  another's  way,  and 
they  found  each  other  so  congenial  that  they 
took  advantage  of  circumstances  to  the  ut- 
most. 

There  were  others  as  well  as  Brandon  who 
found  it  awkward  not  to  have  any  name  by  which 
to  address  her,  and  chief  of  these  was  the  good 
Captain.  After  calling  her  Ma'am  and  Miss  in- 
differently for  about  a  month  he  at  last  determ- 
ined to  ask  her  directly ;  so,  one  day  at  the  din- 
ner-table, he  said : 

"I  most  humbly  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am; 
but  I  do  not  know  your  name,  and  have  never 
had  a  chance  to  find  it  ont.  If  it's  no  offense, 
perhaps  you  would  l)e  so  good  as  to  tell  it  ?" 

The  young  lady  thus  addressed  flushed  crim- 
son, then  looked  at  Brandon,  who  was  gazing 
fixedly  on  his  j)late.  and  with  visible  embarrass- 
ment said,  verv  softlv,  "Beatrice." 

"B.  A.  Tre'achy,''  said  the  Captain.  "Ah! 
I  hope,  Miss  Treachy,  you  will  pardon  me ;  but 
I  really  found  it  so  everlasting  confusing. " 

A  faint  smile  crossed  the  lips  of  Brandon. 
But  Beatrice  did  not  smile.  She  looked  a  little 
frightened,  and  then  said : 

•'Oh,  that  is  only  my  Christian  name!" 
"Christian  name !"  said  the  Captain.    "  How 
can  that  be  a  Christian  name  ?" 


"  My  surname  is — "  She  hesitated,  and  then, 
with  an  effort,  pronounced  the  word  "Potts." 

"  'Potts !' "  said  the  Captain,  quickly,  and  with 
evident  surprise.  "Oh — well,  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  me." 

But  the  face  of  Beatrice  turned  to  an  ashen 
hue  as  she  marked  the  effect  which  the  mention 
of  that  name  had  produced  on  Brandon.  He 
had  been  looking  at  his  plate  like  one  involved 
in  thought.  As  he  heard  the  name  his  head  fell 
forward,  and  he  caught  at  the  table  to  steady 
himself.  He  then  rose  abruptly  with  a  cloud 
upon  his  brow,  his  lips  firmly  pressed  together, 
and  his  whole  face  seemingly  transformed,  and 
hurried  from  the  cabin. 

She  did  not  see  him  again  for  a  week.  He 
pleaded  illness,  shut  himself  in  his  state-room, 
and  was  seen  by  no  one  but  Cato. 

Beatrice  could  not  help  associating  this  change 
in  Brandon  with  the  knowledge  of  her  name. 
That  name  was  hateful  to  herself.  A  fastidious 
taste  had  prevented  her  from  volunteering  to  tell 
it ;  and  as  no  one  asked  her  directly  it  hatl  not 
been  known.  And  now,  since  she  had  told  it, 
this  was  the  result. 

For  Brandon's  conduct  she  could  imagine  only 
one  cause.  He  had  felt  shocked  at  such  a  ple- 
beian name. 

The  fact  that  she  herself  hated  her  name,  and 
saw  keenly  how  ridiculously  it  sounded  after  such 
a  name  as  Beatrice,  only  made  her  feel  the  more 
indignant  with  Brandon.  "His  own  name,"  she 
thought,  bitterly,  "is  plebeian — not  so  bad  as 
mine,  it  is  true,  yet  still  it  is  plebeian.  Why 
should  he  feel  so  shocked  at  mine  ?"  Of  course, 
she  knew  him  only  as  "Mr.  Wheeler.''  "Per- 
haps he  has  imagined  that  I  had  some  grand 
name,  and,  learning  my  true  one,  has  lost  his 
illusion.  He  formerly  esteemed  me.  He  now 
despises  me." 

Beatrice  was  cut  to  the  heart ;  but  she  was 
too  proud  to  show  any  feeling  whatever.  She 
frequented  the  quarter-deck  as  before;  thougli 
now  she  had  no  companion  except,  at  turns,  the 
good-natured  Captain  and  the  mate.  The  lon- 
ger Brandon  avoided  her  the  more  indignant  she 
felt.  Her  outraged  pride  made  sadness  impos- 
sible. 

Brandon  remained  in  his  state-room  for  about 
two  weeks  altogether.  When  at  length  he  made 
his  appearance  on  the  quarter-deck  he  found 
Beatrice  there,  who  greeted  him  with  a  distant 
bow. 

There  was  a  sadness  in  his  face  as  he  ap- 
proached and  took  a  seat  near  her  which  at  once 
disarmed  her,  drove  awiiy  all  indignation,  and 
aroused  pity. 

"You  have  been  sick,"  she  said,  kindly,  and 
with  some  emotion. 

"Yes,"  said  Brandon,  in  a  low  voice,  "but 
now  that  I  am  able  to  go  about  again  my  first 
act  is  to  apologize  to  you  for  my  rudeness  in 
quitting  the  table  so  abruptly  as  to  make  it  seem 
lik^  a  personal  insult  to  you.  Now  I  hope  you 
will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  an  insult  to  you 
from  me  is  impossible.  Something  like  a  spasm 
passed  over  my  nervous  system,  and  I  had  to 
hurry  to  my  room. " 

"I  confess,"  .said  Beatrice,  frankly,  "that  I 
thought  your  sudden  departure  had  something  to 
do  with  the  conversation  about  me.  I  am  very 
soiTy  indeed  that  I  did  you  such  a  wrong;  I 


48 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


might  Imve  known  vou  better.  Will  you  forgive 
me?" 

Brandon  smiled,  faintly.  "You  are  the  one 
who  must  forgive. " 

"But  I  hate  my  name  so,"  burst  out  Beatrice. 

Brandon  said  nothing. 

"Don't  you?    Now  confess." 

"  How  can  I — "  he  began. 

"You  do,  you  do!"  she  cried,  vehemently; 
"  but  I  don't  care — for  I  hate  it." 

Brandon  looked  at  her  with  a  sad,  weary  smile, 
and  said  notliing.  "You  are  sick,  "she  said;  "I 
iim  thoughtless.  I  see  that  my  name,  in  some 
way  or  other,  recalls  painful  thoughts.  How 
wretched  it  is  for  me  to  give  pain  to  others !" 

Brandon  looked  at  her  appealingly,  and  said, 
"You  give  pain?  Believe  me!  believe  me! 
there  is  nothing  but  happiness  where  you 
are." 

At  this  Beatrice  looked  confused  and  changed 
the  conversation.  There  seemed  after  this  to  be 
a  mutual  understanding  between  the  two  to  avoid 
the  subject  of  her  name,  and  although  it  was 
a  constant  mortification  to  Beatrice,  yet  she  be- 
lieved that  on  his  part  there  was  no  contempt  for 
the  name,  but  something  very  different,  some- 
thing associated  with  better  memories. 

They  now  resumed  their  old  walks  and  con- 
versations. Every  day  bound  them  more  close- 
ly to  one  another,  and  each  took  it  for  granted 
that  the  other  would  be  the  constant  companion 
of  every  hour  in  the  day. 

Both  had  lived  unusual  lives.  Beatrice  had 
much  to  say  about  her  Hong-Kong » life,  the 
Chinese,  the  British  officers,  and  the  festivities 
of  garrison  life.  Brandon  had  lived  for  years  in 
Australia,  and  was  familiar  with  all  the  round  of 
events  which  may  be  met  with  in  that  country. 
He  had  been  born  in  England,  "and  had  lived 
there,  as  has  already  been  mentioned,  till  he  was 
almost  a  man,  so  that  he  had  much  to  say  about 
that  mother-land  concerning  which  Beatrice  felt 
such  curiosity.  Thus  they  settled  down  again 
naturally  and  inevitably  into  constant  association 
with  each  other. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  thoughts  of  Bran- 
don during  the  fortnight  of  his  seclusion,  or  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  conclusion  to  which  he 
came,  he  carefully  refrained  from  the  most  re- 
mote hint  at  the  home  or  the  prospects  of  Bea- 
trice. He  found  her  on  the  seas,  and  he  was 
content  to  take  her  as  she  was.  Her  name  was 
a  common  one.  She  might  be  connected  with 
his  enemy,  or  she  might  not.  For  his  part,  he 
did  not  wish  to  know. 

Beatrice  also  showed  equal  care  in  avoiding 
the  subject.  The  effect  which  had  been  produced 
by  the  mention  of  her  name  was  still  remembered, 
and,  whate\  er  the.cause  may  have  been,  both  this 
and  her  own  strong  dislike  to  it  prevented  her 
from  ever  making  any  allusion  either  to  her  fa- 
ther or  to  any  one  of  her  family.  She  had  no 
dcruples.  however,  about  talking  of  her  Hong- 
Kong  life,  in  which  one  person  seemed  to  have 
figured  most  prominently — a  man  who  had  lived 
there  for  years,  and  given  her  instruction  in  mu- 
sic. He  was  an  Italian,  of  whom  she  knew  no- 
thing whatever  but  his  name,  with  the  exception 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  unfortunate  in  Eu- 
rope, and  had  come  out  to  Hong-Kong  as  band- 
master of  the  Twentieth  Regiment.  His  name 
was  Paolo  LanghettL 


"Do  you  like  music?"  asked  Brandon,  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  Above  all  things."  said  Beatrice,  with  an  in- 
tensity of  empliasis  which  spoke  of  deep  feeling. 

"Do  you  play?" 

"  Somewhat." 

"Do  you  sing?" 

"A  little.  1  was  considered  a  good  singer  in 
Hong-Kong ;  but  that  is  nothing.  I  sang  in  the 
Cathedral.  Langhetti  was  kind  enough  to  jiraise 
me ;  but  then  he  was  so  fond  of  me  that  what- 
ever I  did  was  right. " 

Brandon  was  silent  for  a  little  while.  "  Lan- 
ghetti was  fond  of  you?"  he  repeated,  interrog- 
atively, and  in  a  voice  of  singular  sweetness. 

"Very,"  returned  Beatrice,  musirgly.  "He 
always  called  me  'Bice' — sometimes  'liicetta,' 
'Bicinola,'  'Bicina;'  it  was  his  pretty  Italian 
way.  But  oh,  if  you  could  hear  him  jilay ! 
He  could  make  the  violin  speak  like  a  human 
voice.  He  used  to  think  in  music.  He  seemed 
to  me  to  be  hardly  human  sometimes. " 

"  And  he  loved  to  hear  you  sing  ?"  said  Bran- 
don, in  the  same  voice. 

"  He  used  to  praise  me,"  said  Beatrice,  meek- 
ly. "His  praise  used  to  gratify,  but  it  did  not 
deceive  me.    I  am  not  conceited,  Mr.  Wheeler. " 

"Would  you  sing  for  me?"  asked  Brandon, 
in  accents  almost  of  entreaty,  looking  at  her  with 
an  imploring  expression. 

Beatrice's  head  fell.  "Not  now — not  yet — 
not  here, "  she  murmured,  with  a  motion  of  her 
hand.  "  Wait  till  we  pass  beyond  this  ocean. 
It  seems  haunted." 

Brandon  understood  her  tone  and  gesture. 

But  the  weeks  passed,  and  the  months,  and 
they  went  over  the  seas,  touching  at  Mauritius, 
and  afterward  at  Cape  Town,  till  finally  they 
entered  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  and  sailed  Nortli. 
During  all  this  time  their  association  was  close 
and  continuous.  In  her  presence  Brandon  soft- 
ened ;  the  sternness  of  his  features  relaxed,  and 
the  great  purpose  of  his  life  grew  gradually 
fainter. 

One  evening,  after  they  had  entered  the  At- 
lantic Ocean,  they  were  standing  by  the  stern 
of  the  ship  looking  at  the  waters,  when  Brandon 
repeated  his  request. 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  sing  now?"  he 
asked,  genth,  and  in, the  same  tone  of  entreaty 
which  he  had  used  before. 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  for  a  momen*:  without 
speaking.  Then  she  raised  her  face  and  looked 
up  at  the  sky,  with  a  deej)  abstraction  in  her 
eyes,  as  though  in  thought.  Her  face,  usually 
colorless,  now,  in  the  moonlight,  looked  like 
marble;  her  dark  hair  hung  in  pecidiar  folds 
over  her  brow — an  arrangement  which  was  an- 
tique in  its  style,  and  gave  her  the  look  of  a 
statue  of  one  of  tlie  Muses.  Her  straight,  Gre- 
cipn  features,  large  eyes,  thin  lips,  and  well- 
rounded  chin — all  had  the  same  classic  air,  and 
Brandon,  as  he  looked  at  her,  wondered  if  she 
knew  how  fair  she  was.  She  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment in  silence,  and  then  began.  It  was  a  mar- 
velous and  a  memorable  epoch  in  Brandon's  life. 
The  scene  around  added  its  inspiration  to  the 
voice  of  the  singer.  The  ocean  spread  afar  away 
before  them  till  the  verge  of  the  horizon  seemetl 
to  blend  sea  and  sky  together.  Overhead  the 
dim  sky  hung,  dotted  with  innumerable  stars, 
prominent  among  wliich,  not  far  above  the  ho- 


COIiD  AND  CREESE. 


4» 


SHE  GAVE  HERSELF  ENTIRELY  UP  TO  THE  JOT  OF  SONO 


rizon,  gleamed  that  glorious  constellation,  the 
Southern  Cross.  Beatrice,  who  hesitated  for  a 
moment  as  if  to  decide  upon  her  song,  at  last 
caught  her  idea  from  this  scene  around  her,  and 
began  one  of  the  most  magnificent  of  Italian 
compositions : 

"I  cieli  imraensi  narrnno 
Del  grand'  Iddio  la  gloria." 

Her  first  notes  poured  forth  with  a  sweetness 
nnd  fullness  that  arrested  the  attention  of  all  on 
board  the  ship.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
sung,  as  she  afterward  said,  since  Langhetti  had 
left  Hong-Kong,  and  she  gave  herself  entirely 
up  to  the  joy  of  song.  Her  voice,  long  silent, 
instead  of  having  been  injured  by  the  sorrow 
through  which  she  had  passed,  was  pure,  full, 
mar\'elous,  and  thrilling.  A  glow  like  some  di- 
vine inspiration  passed  over  the  marble  beauty 
of  her  classic  features;  her  eyes  themselves  seem- 
ed to  speak  of  all  that  glory  o*"  which  she  sang, 
as  the  sacred  fire  of  genius  flashed  from  them. 

At  those  wonderful  notes,  so  generous  and  so 
penetrating  with  their  sublime  meaning,  all  on 
board  the  ship  looked  and  listened  with  amaze- 
ment. The  hands  of  the  steersman  held  the 
wheel  listlessly.  Brandon's  own  soul  was  filled 
with  the  fullest  effects.     He  stood  watching  her 


figure,  with  its  inspired  lineaments,  and  thought 
of  the  fabled  prodigies  of  music  spoken  of  in  an- 
cient story.  He  thought  of  Orpheus  hushing  all 
animated  nature  to  calm  by  the  magic  of  his 
song.  At  last  all  thoughts  of  his  own  left  him, 
and  nothing  remained  but  that  which  the  song 
of  Beatrice  swept  over  his  spirit. 

But  Beatrice  saw  nothing  and  heard  nothing 
except  the  scene  before  her,  with  its  grand  in- 
spiration and  her  own  utterance  of  its  praise. 
Brandon's  own  soul  was  more  and  more  over- 
come ;  the  divine  voice  thrilled  over  his  heart ; 
he  shuddered  and  uttered  a  low  sigh  of  rapture. 

"  My  God !"  he  exclaimed  as  she  ended ;  "  I 
never  before  heard  any  thing  like  this.  I  never 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  Is  there  on  earth  an- 
other such  a  voice  as  yours  ?  Will  I  ever  again 
hear  any  thing  like  it?  Your  song  Ls  like  a 
voice  from  those  heavens  of  which  you  sing.  It 
is  a  new  revelation. " 

He  poured  forth  these  words  with  passionate 
impetuosity.     Beatrice  smiled. 

"Langhetti  used  to  praise  me,"  she  simply 
rejoined. 

"  You  terrify  me,"  said  he. 

"Why?"  asked  Beatrice,  in  wonder. 

"Because  your  song  works  upon  me  lik«  * 


50 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


spell,  and  all  my  soul  t>ink8  away,  and  all  my 
will  is  weakened  to  nothingness." 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  with  a  monrnfal  smile. 
"Then  you  have  the  true  passion  for  music," 
she  said,  "if  this  be  so.  For  my  part  it  is  the 
joy  of  my  life,  and  I  hope  to  give  up  all  my  life 
to  it" 

"  Do  you  expect  to  see  Langhetti  when  you 
reach  England  ?"  asked  Brandon,  abruptly. 

"I  hope  so,"  said  she,  musingly. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    IMPROVI8ATORE. 

The  character  of  Beatrice  nnfolded  more  and 
more  every  day,  and  every  new  development  ex- 
cited the  wonder  of  Brandon. 

She  said  once  that  music  was  to  her  like  the 
breath  of  life,  and  indeed  it  seemed  to  be ;  for 
now,  since  Brandon  had  witnessed  her  powers, 
he  noticed  hew  all  her  thoughts  took  a  color- 
ing from  this.  What  most  surprised  him  was 
her  profound  acquirements  in  the  more  difiBcult 
branches  of  the  art.  It  was  not  merely  the  case 
of  a  great  natural  gift  of  voice.  Her  whole  soul 
seemed  imbued  with  those  subtle  influences  which 
music  can  most  of  all  bestow.  Her  whole  life 
seemed  to  have  been  passed  in  one  long  inter- 
course with  the  greatest  works  of  the  greatest 
masters.  All  their  works  were  perfectly  well 
known  to  her.  A  marvelous  memory  enabled 
her  to  have  their  choicest  productions  at  com- 
mand ;  and  Brandon,  who  in  the  early  part  of 
his  life  had  received  a  careful  musical  education, 
knew  enough  about  it  to  estimate  rightly  the 
full  extent  of  the  genius  of  his  companion,  and 
to  be  astonished  thereat. 

Her  mind  was  also  full  of  stories  about  the 
lives,  acts,  and  words  of  the  great  masters.  For 
her  they  formed  the  only  world  with  which  she 
cared  to  be  acquainted,  and  the  only  heroes  whom 
she  had  power  to  admire.  All  this  flowed  from 
one  profound  central  feeling — namely,  a  deep  and 
all-absorbing  love  of  this  most  divine  art.  To 
her  it  was  more  than  art.  It  was  a  new  faculty 
to  him  who  possessed  it.  It  was  the  highest 
power  of  utterance — such  utterance  as  belongs 
to  the  angels ;  such  utterance  as,  when  possessed 
by  man,  raises  him  almost  to  an  equality  with 
them. 

Brandon  found  out  every  day  some  new  power 
in  her  genius.  Now  her  voice  was  unloosed  from 
the  bonds  which  she  had  placed  upon  it.  She 
sang,  she  said,  because  it  was  better  than  talk- 
ing. Words  were  weak — song  was  all  expres- 
sion. Nor  was  it  enough  for  her  to  take  the 
compositions  of  others.  Those  were  infinitely 
.  better,  she  said,  than  any  thing  which  she  could 
produce;  but  each  one  must  have  his  own  na- 
tive expression ;  and  there  were  times  when  she 
had  to  sing  from  herself.  To  Brandon  this 
seemed  the  most  amazing  of  her  powers.  In 
Italy  the  power  of  improvisation  is  not  uncom- 
mon, and  Englishmen  generally  ima^ne  that 
this  is  on  account  of  some  peculiar  quality  of 
the  Italian  language.  This  is  not  the  case.  One 
can  improvise  in  any  language ;  and  Brandon 
found  that  Beatrice  could  do  this  with  the  En- 
glish. 

"It  is  not  wonderful,"  said  she,  in  answer  to 


his  expression  of  astonishment,  "it  is  not  erea 
difficult.  There  is  an  art  in  doing  this,  but, 
when  you  once  know  it,  you  find  no  trouble.  It 
is  rhythmic  prose  in  a  seiies  of  lines.  Each  line 
must  contain  a  thought.  Langhetti  found  no 
difficulty  in  making  rhyming  lines,  but  rhymes 
are  not  necessary.  This  rhythmic  prose  is  as 
poetic  as  any  thing  can  be.  All  the  hymns  of 
the  Greek  Church  are  written  on  this  principle. 
So  are  the  Te  Deum  and  the  Gloria.  So  were 
all  the  ancient  Jewish  psalms.  The  Jews  im- 
provised. I  suppose  Deboraii's  song,  and  per- 
haps Miriam's,  are  of  this  order." 

"And  you  think  the  art  can  be  learned  by 
every  one  ?" 

"No,  not  by  every  one.  One  must  have  a 
quick  and  vivid  imagination,  and  natural  fluen- 
cy— but  these  are  all.  Genius  makes  all  the 
difference  between  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad. 
Sometimes  you  have  a  song  of  Miriam  that  lives 
while  the  world  lasts,  sometime  a  poor  little 
song  like  one  of  mine. " 

"Sing  to  me  about  music,"  said  Brandon, 
suddenly. 

Beatrice  immediately  began  an  improvisation. 
But  the  music  to  which  she  sang  was  lofty  and 
impressive,  and  the  marvelous  sweetness  of  her 
voice  produced  an  indescribable  effect.  And 
again,  as  always  when  she  sang,  the  fashion  of 
her  face  was  changed,  and  she  became  transfig- 
ured before  his  eyes.  It  was  the  same  rhythmic 
prose  of  which  she  had  been  speaking,  sung  ac- 
cording to  the  mode  in  which  the  Gloria  is  chant- 
ed, and  divided  into  bars  of  equal  time. 

Brandon,  as  always,  yielded  to  the  spell  of  her 
song.  To  him  it  was  an  incantation.  Her  own 
strains  varied  to  express  the  changing  sentiment, 
and  at  last,  as  the  song  ended,  it  seemed  to  die 
away  in  melodious  melancholy,  like  the  dying 
strain  of  the  fabled  swan. 

"Sing  on!"  he  exclaimed,  fervently;  "I 
would  wish  to  stand  and  hear  your  voice  for- 
ever." 

A  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  came  over  her 
face.  She  looked  at  him,  and  said  nothing. 
Brandon  bowed  his  head,  and  stood  in  silence. 

Thus  ended  many  of  their  interviews.  Slow- 
ly and  steadily  this  young  girl  gained  over  him 
an  ascendency  which  he  felt  hourly,  and  which 
was  so  strong  that  he  did  not  even  struggle  against 
it.  Her  marvelous  genius,  so  subtle,  so  delicate, 
yet  so  inventive  and  quick,  amazed  him.  If  he 
spoke  of  this,  she  attributed  every  thing  to  Lan- 
ghetti. "  Could  you  but  see  him,"  she  would 
say,  "I  should  seem  like  nothing!" 

"  Has  he  such  a  voice  ?" 

"  Oh !  he  has  no  voice  at  all.  It  is  his  soul," 
she  would  reply.  "He  speaks  through  the  vi- 
olin. But  he  taught  me  all  that  I  know.  He 
said  my  voice  was  God's  gift.  He  had  a  strange 
theory  that  the  language  of  heaven  and  of  the 
angels  was  music,  and  that  he  who  loved  it  best 
on  earth  made  his  life  and  his  thoughts  most 
heavenly." 

"  You  must  have  been  fond  of  such  a  man." 

"Very,"  said  Beatrice,  with  the  utmost  sim- 
plicity.    "  Oh,  I  loved  him  so  dearly !" 

But  in  this  confession,  so  artlessly  made, 
Brandon  saw  only  a  love  that  was  fiUal  or  sis- 
terly. "He  was  the  first  one,"  said  Beatrice, 
"  who  showed  me  the  true  meaning  of  life.  He 
exalted  his  art  above  all  other  arts,  and  always 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


51 


miKntnined  that  it  was  the  parest  and  best  thing 
which  the  world  possessed.  This  consoled  him 
for  exile,  poverty,  and  sorrow  of  many  kinds." 

•♦  Was  he  married  ?" 

Beatrice  looked  at  Brandon  with  a  singolar 
smile.  "Married!  Langhetti  married !  Par- 
don me ;  but  the  idea  of  Langhetti  in  domestic 
life  is  so  ridiculous."  i 

"Why?  The  greatest  musicians  have  married."  j 

Beatrice  looked  up  to  the  sky  with  a  strange, 
serene  smile.  "Langhetti  has  no  passion  out  i 
of  art,"  she  said.  "As  an  artist  he  is  all  fire,  ' 
and  vehemence,  and  enthusiasm.  He  is  aware 
of  all  human  passions,  but  only  as  an  artist.  He 
has  only  on6  love,  and  that  is  music.  This  is 
his  idol.  He  seems  to  me  himself  like  a  song. 
But  all  the  raptures  which  poets  and  novelists 
apply  to  lovers  are  felt  by  him  in  his  music.  He 
wants  nothing  while  he  has  this.  He  thinks  the 
nusician's  lite  the  highest  life.  He  says  those 
£0  whom  the  revelations  of  God  were  committed 
were  musicians.  As  David  and  Isaiah  received 
inspiration  to  the  strains  of  the  harp,  so,  he 
says,  have  Bach  and  Mozart,  Handel  and  Haydn, 
Beethoven  and  Mendelssohn.  And  where,  in- 
deed," she  continued,  iu  a  musing  tone,  hal*"  so- 
liloquizing, "where,  indeed,  can  man  rise  3o 
near  heaven  as  when  he  listens  to  the  inspired 
strains  of  these  lofty  souls  ?" 

"Langhetti,"  said  Brandon,  in  a  Ioav  voice, 
"  does  not  understand  love,  or  he  would  not  put  i 
music  in  its  place."  i 

"Yes,"  said  Beatrice.       "We    sjxike  once 
about  that.    He  has  his  own  ideas,  which  he  ex-  j 
pressed  to  me. "  ; 

"What  were  they?"  ! 

"I  will  have  to  say  them  as  he  said  them,"  ] 
said  she.     "For  on  tins  theme  he  had  to  express 
himself  in  music." 

Brandon  waited  in  rapt  expectation.  Beatrice 
began  to  sing : 

"Fairest  of  all  most  fair, 
Young  Love,  how  comest  thon 

Unto  the  soul  f 
StUl  as  the  evening  hreeze 
-    - .        Over  the  starry  wave— 
The  mooulit  wave— 

,    "  The  heart  lies  motionless ; 
So  still,  80  seneitive ; 
Love  fans  the  breeze.  ' 

■    •      Lo !  at  his  lightest  touch, 
, .;-        The  myriad  npples  rise, 
And  murmur  on. 

:   ,  -  ,  "And  ripples  rise  to  waves, 
And  waves  to  rolling  seas, 
'  "  Till,  far  and  wide, 

The  endless  billows  roll. 
In  undulations  long. 
For  evermore !"  . .     .  , 

Her  voice  died  away  into  a  scarce  audible 
tone,  which  sank  into  Brandon's  heart,  lingering 
and  dying  about  the  last  word,  with  touching 
and  unutterable  melancholy.  It  was  like  the 
lament  of  one  who  loved.  It  was  like  the  cry 
oi'  some  yearning  heart. 

In  a  moment  Beatrice  looked  at  Brandon 
with  a  swift,  bright  smile.  She  had  sung  these 
words  as  an  artist.  For  a  moment  Brandon  had 
thought  that  she  was  expressing  her  own  feel- 
ings. But  the  bright  smile  on  her  face  con- 
trasted so  strongly  with  the  melancholy  of  her 
voice  that  he  saw  this  was  not  so. 

"Thus,"  she  said,  "Langhetti  sang  about  it; 
and  I  have  never  forgotten  his  words. " 


The  thought  came  to  Brandon,  is  it  not  truer 
than  she  thinks,  that  "she  loves  him  very  dear- 
ly ?"  as  she  said. 

"  You  were  bom  to  be  an  artist,"  he  said,  at 
last 

Beatrice  sighed  lightly.  ♦'  That's  what  I  nev- 
er can  be,  I  am  afraid,'  said  she.  "  Yet  I  hope 
I  may  be  able  to  gratify  my  love  for  it.  Art," 
she  continued,  musingly,  "is  open  to  women  as 
well  as  to  men ;  and  of  {Jl  arts  none  are  so  much 
so  as  music.  The  interpretation  of  great  mas- 
ters is  a  blessing  to  the  world.  Langhetti  used 
to  say  that  these  are  the  only  ones  of  modern 
times  that  have  received  heavenly  inspiration. 
They  correspond  to  the  Jewish  prophets.  He 
used  to  declare  that  the  interpretation  of  each 
was  of  equal  importance.  To  man  is  given  the 
interpretation  of  the  one,  but  to  woman  is  given 
the  interpretation  of  much  of  the  other.  Why 
is  not  my  voice,  if  it  is  such  as  he  said,  and  es- 
pecially the  feeling  within  me,  a  Divine  call  to 
go  forth  upon  this  mission  of  interpreting  the  in- 
spired utterances  of  the  great  masters  of  modem 
days? 

"  You,"  she  continued,  "are  a  man,  and  yon 
have  a  purpose. "  Brandon  started,  but  she  did 
not  notice  it.  "You  have  a  purpose  in  life," 
she  repeated.  "Your  intercourse  with  me  will 
hereafter  be  but  an  episode  in  the  life  that  is  be- 
fore you.  I  am  a  girl,  but  I  too  may  wish  to 
have  a  purpose  in  life — suited  to  my  powers; 
and  if  I  am  not  able  to  work  toward  it  I  shall 
not  be  satisfied. " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  I  have  a  purpose,  as 
you  call  it  ?"  asked  Brandon,  :if[er  a  pause. 

"By  the  expression  of  your  face,  and  your 
whole  manner  when  you  are  alone  and  subside 
into  yourself,"  she  replied,  simply. 

"And  of  what  kind?"  he  continued. 

"That  I  do  not  seek  to  know,"  she  replied; 
"but  I  know  that  it  must  be  deep  and  all-ab- 
sorbing. It  seems  to  me  to  be  too  stem  for 
Love ;  you  are  not  the  man  to  devote  yourself 
to  Avarice ;  possibly  it  may  be  Ambition,  yet 
somehow  I  do  not  think  so." 

"  What  do  you  think  it  is,  then  ?"  asked  Bran- 
don, in  a  voice  which  had  died  away,  ahnost  to 
a  whisper. 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly;  she  looked  at 
him  pityingly.  She  looked  at  him  also  with 
that  sympathy  which  might  be  evinced  by  one's 
Guardian  Angel,  if  that  Being  might  by  any 
chance  become  visible.  She  leaned  toward  him, 
and  spoke  low  in  a  voice  only  audible  to  him : 

"  Something  stronger  than  Love,  and  Avar- 
ice, and  Ambition,"  said  she.  "There  can  be 
only  one  thing." 

"What?" 

"Vengeance!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  inex- 
pressible mourafulness. 

Brandon  looked  at  her  wonderingly,  not  know- 
ing how  this  young  girl  coidd  have  divined  his 
thoughts.     He  long  remained  silent. 

Beatrice  folded  her  hands  together,  and  look- 
ed pensively  at  the  sea. 

"  You  are  a  marvelous  being,"  said  Brandon, 
at  length.     "  Can  you  tell  me  any  more  ?" 

"I  might,"  said  she,  hesitatingly;  "but  I 
am  afraid  you  will  think  me  impertinent." 

"  No, "  said  Brandon.  "  Tell  me,  for  perhaps 
you  are  mistaken." 

"You  will  not  think  me  impertinent,  then? 


fiS 


COKD  AND  CREESK 


You  will  only  think  that  I  said  go  because  3-ou 
asked  me  ?" 

*'  I  entreat  you  to  believe  thnt  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  think  otherwise  of  you  tliun  you  your- 
self would  wish." 

"  Shall  I  say  it,  then  ?" 

"Yes." 

Her  voice  again  sank  to  a  whisper. 

"  Your  name  is  not  Wheeler.' 

Brandon  looked  nt  her  eamestlj'.  "  How  did 
you  learn  that  ?" 

"  By  nothing  more  than  observation." 

"  What  is  my  name  V  " 

"  Ah,  that  is  beyond  my  jiower  to  know,"  said 
she  with  a  smile.  "I  have  only  discovered  what 
yon  are  not.  Now  you  will  not  think  me  a  sdv, 
w  ill  you  ?"  she  continued,  in  a  pleading  voice. 

Brandon  smiled  on  her  mournfully  as  she  stood 
looking  nt  him  with  her  dark  eyes  ujimised. 

"A  spy!"  he  rejieated.  "To  me  it  is  the 
sweetest  thought  conceivable  that  you  could  take 
the  trouble  to  notice  me  sufficiently. "  He  checked 
himself  suddenly,  for  Beatrice  looked  away,  and 
her  hands  which  had  been  folded  together  clutched 
each  other  nen'ously.  "It  is  always  flattering 
for  a  gentleman  to  be  the  object  of  a  lady's  no- 
tice," he  concluded,  in  a  light  tone. 

Beatrice  smiled.  "  But  where,  "  he  continued, 
"  could  you  have  gained  that  ])ower  of  divination 
which  you  possess ;  you  who  have  always  lived 
a  secluded  life  in  so  remote  a  plate  ?" 

"You  did  not  think  that  one  like  me  could 
come  out  of  Hong-Kong,  did  you?"  said  she, 
laughingly. 

"Well,  I  have  seen  much  of  the  world ;  but  I 
have  not  so  much  of  this  power  a.s  you  have. " 

"You  might  have  more  if — if — "  she  hesitated. 
"Well,"  she  continued,  "they  say,  you  know, 
that  men  act  by  reason,  women  by  intuition." 

"  Have  you  any  more  intuitions'?"  asked  Bran- 
don, earnestly. 

' '  Yes, "  said  she,  mournfullv. 

"Tell  me  some." 

"They  will  not  do  to  tell,"  said  Beatrice,  in 
the  same  mournful  tone. 

"Why  not?" 

"They  are  painful." 

"Tell" them  at  any  rate." 

"No." 

"Hint  at  them." 

Beatrice  looked  at  him  earnestly.  Their  eyes 
met.  In  hers  there  was  a  glance  of  anxious  in- 
quiry, as  though  her  soul  were  putting  forth  a 
question  by  that  look  which  was  stronger  than 
words.  In  his  there  was  a  glance  of  anxious 
expectancy,  as  though  his  soul  were  speaking 
unto  hers,  saying:  "Tell  all;  let  me  know  if 
you  suspect  that  of  which  I  am  afraid  to  think." 

"We  have  met  with  ships  at  sea,"she  resumed, 
in  low,  deliberate  tones. 

"Yes." 

"Sometimes  we  have  caught  up  with  them, 
we  have  exchanged  signals,  we  have  sailed  in 
sight  of  one  another  for  hours  or  for  days,  hold- 
ing intercourse  all  the  while.  At  last  a  new 
morning  has  come,  and  we  looked  out  over  the 
sea,  and  the  other  ship  has  gone  from  sight. 
We  have  left  it  forever.  Perhaps  we  have  drifted 
away,  perhaps  a  storm  has  parted  us,  the  end  is 
the  same — separation  for  evermore. " 

She  spoke  mournfully,  looking  away,  her  voice 
insensibly  took  up  a  cadence,  and  the  words 


seemed  to  fall  of  themselves  into  rhythmic 
pauses. 

"I  understand  you,"  said  Brandon,  with  a 
more  profound  moumfulness  in  his  voice.  ' '  Yon 
speak  like  a  Sibyl.  I  pray  Heaven  that  your 
words  may  not  be  a  prophecy." 

Beatrice  still  looked  at  him,  and  in  her  eyes 
he  read  pity  beyond  words ;  and  sorrow  also  as 
deep  as  that  ]iity. 

"  Do  you  read  my  thoughts  as  I  rend  yours?" 
asked  Brandon,  abru])tly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  mounifully. 

He  turned  his  face  away. 

"Did  Langhetti  teach  you  this  also?"  he 
asked,  at  last.  ' 

"He  taught  me  many  things,"  was  the  an- 
swer. 

Day  succeeded  to  day,  and  week  to  week.  Still 
the  ship  went  on  holding  steadily  to  her  course 
northward,  and  eve-y  day  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer  her  goal.  Storms  came — some  moder- 
ate, some  severe ;  but  the  ship  escaped  them  all 
with  no  casualties,  and  with  but  little  delay. 

At  last  they  passed  the  e(juator,  and  seemed 
to  have  entered  the  last  stage  of  their  journey. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    STRUGGLE   FOR    LIFE. 

At  length  the  ship  came  within  the  latitude 
of  the  Guinea  coast. 

For  some  days  there  had  been  alternate  winds 
and  calms,  and  the  weather  was  so  fitful  and  so 
fickle  that  no  one  could  tell  in  one  hour  what 
would  ha])pen  in  the  next.  All  this  was  at  last 
terminated  by  a  dead,  dense,  oppressive  calm 
like  those  of  the  Indian  Ocean,  in  which  exer- 
tion was  almost  impossible  and  breathing  diffi- 
cult. The  sky,  however,  instead  of  being  clear 
and  bright,  as  in  former  calms,  was  now  over- 
spread with  menacing  clouds ;  the  sea  looked 
black,  and  spread  out  before  them  on  every  side 
like  an  illimitable  surface  of  polished  ebony. 
There  was  something  appalling  in  the  depth  and 
intensity  of  this  calm  with  such  accompaniments. 
All  felt  this  influence.  Although  there  was  ev- 
ery temptation  to  inaction  and  sleep  yet  no  one 
yielded  to  it.  The  men  looked  suspiciously 
and  expectantly  at  every  quarter  of  the  heavens. 
The  Captain  said  nothing,  but  cautiously  had  all 
his  preparations  made  for  a  storm.  Every  half 
hour  he  anxiously  consulted  the  barometer,  and 
then  cast  uneasy  glances  at  the  sea  and  sky. 

But  the  calm  which  had  set  in  at  midnight, 
•and  had  become  confirmed  at  dawn,  extended 
itself  through  the  long  day.  The  shij)  drifted 
idly,  keeping  no  course,  her  yards  creaking  lazi- 
ly as  she  slowly  rose  and  fell  at  the  movement  of 
the  ocean-undulations.  Hour  after  hour  jmssed, 
and  the  day  ended,  and  night  came  once  more. 

The  Captain  did  not  turn  in  that  night.  In 
anxious  expectation  he  waited  and  watched  on 
deck,  while  all  around  there  was  the  verj-  black- 
ness of  darkness.  Brandon  began  to  see  from 
the  Captain's  manner  that  he  expected  something 
far  more  violent  than  any  thing  which  the  ship 
had  yet  encountered,  but,  thinking  that  his  pres- 
ence would  be  of  no  consequence,  he  retired  at 
the  usual  hour. 

The  deep,  dense  calm  continued  until  nearly 


CORD  AND  CREHSE. 


68 


midnight.  The  watchers  on  deck  m\\  waited  in 
the  same  anxious  expectation,  tliiiikinji;  that  the 
night  would  bring  on  the  change  whicii  they  ex- 
pected. 

Almost  half  an  hour  before  midnight  a  faint 
light  was  seen  in  the  thick  mass  of  clouds  over- 
heud—  it  was  not  lightning,  but  a  whiti.sh  streak, 
US  though  produced  by  some  movement  in  the 
clouds.     All  looked  up  in  mute  exj)ectation. 

Suddenly  a  faint  putf  of  wind  came  from  the 
west,  l)lowing  gently  for  a  few  moments,  then 
stoi)ping,  and  then  coming  on  in  a  stronger  blast. 
Afar  otf,  at  what  seemed  like  an  immeasurabie 
distance,  a  low,  dull  roar  arose,  a  heavy  moan- 
ing sound,  like  the  menace  of  the  mighty  At- 
lantic, which  was  now  advancing  in  wrath  upon 
them. 

In  the  midst  of  this  the  whole  scene  burst 
forth  into  dazzling  light  at  the  flash  of  a  vast 
moss  of  lightning,  which  seemed  to  blaze  from 
every  part  of  the  heavens  on  every  side  simul- 
taneously. It  threw  forth  all  things — ship,  sea, 
and  sky — into  the  dazzled  eyes  of  the  watchers. 
They  saw  the  ebon  sky,  the  black  and  lustrous 
sea,  the  motionless  ship.  They  saw  also,  far  otf 
to  the  west,  a  long  line  of  white  wiiich  appeared 
to  extend  along  the  whole  horizon. 

But  the  scene  darted  out  of  sight  instantly, 
and  instantly  there  fell  the  volleying  discharge  of 
a  tremendous  peal  of  thunder,  at  whose  reverb- 
erations the  air  and  sea  and  ship  all  vibrated. 

Now  the  sky  lightened  again,  and  suddenly, 
as  the  ship  lay  there,  a  va.st  ball  of  fire  issued 
from  the  black  clouds  immediately  overhead,  de- 
scending like  the  lightning  straight  downward, 
till  all  at  once  it  struck  the  main  track.  With  a 
roar  louder  thar;  that  of  the  recent  thunder  it 
exploded  ;  Vast  sheets  of  fire  flashed  out  into  the 
air,  and  a  stream  of  light  passed  down  the  entii-e 
mast,  shattering  it  as  a  tree  is  shattered  when 
the  lightning  strikes  it.  The  whole  ship  was 
shaken  to  its  centre.  The  deck  all  around  the 
mast  was  shattered  to  splinters,  and  along  its  ex- 
tent and  around  its  base  a  burst  of  vivid  flame 
started  into  light. 

Wild  confusion  followed.  At  once  all  the  sail- 
ors were  ordered  up,  and  began  to  extinguish  the 
fires,  and  to  cut  away  the  shattered  mast.  The 
blows  of  the  axes  resounded  through  the  ship. 
The  rigging  was  severed;  the  mast,  already 
shattered,  needed  but  a  few  blows  to  loosen  its 
last  fibres. 

But  suddenly,  and  furiously,  and  irresistibly, 
it  seemed  as  though  the  whole  tempest  which 
they  had  so  long  expected  was  at  last  let  loose 
upon  them.  There  was  a  low  moan,  and,  while 
they  were  yet  trying  to  get  rid  of  the  mast,  a 
tremendous  squall  struck  the  ship.  It  yielded 
and  turned  far  over  to  that  awful  blow.  The 
men  started  back  from  their  work.  The  next 
instant  a  flash  of  lightning  came,  and  toward  the 
«  est,  close  over  them,  rose  a  long,  white  wall  of 
foam.  It  was  the  van-guard  of  the  storm,  seen 
shortly  before  fi-om  afar,  which  was  now  upon 
them,  ready  to  fall  on  their  devoted  heads. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  No  order  came  from 
the  Captain.  The  men  awaited  some  word. 
There  can  e  none.  Then  the  waters,  which 
thus  rose  up  like  a  heap  before  them,  struck  the 
ship  with  all  the  accumulated  fury  of  that  resist- 
less onset,  and  hurled  their  utmost  weight  upon 
her  as  she  lav  before  them. 


The  ship,  already  reeling  far  over  at  the  stroke 
of  the  storm,  now,  at  this  new  onset,  yielded 
utterly,  and  rolled  far  over  on  her  l^am-ends. 
The  awful  billows  dashed  over  and  over  her, 
sweeping  her  in  their  fury  from  end  to  end. 
The  men  clung  helplessly  to  whatever  rigging 
lay  nearest,  seeking  only  in  that  first  moment  of 
dread  to  i)revent  themselves  from  l>eing  washed 
away,  and  waiting  for  some  order  from  the  Cap- 
tain, and  wondering  while  they  waited. 

At  the  first  peal  of  thunder  Brandon  had  start- 
ed up.  He  had  lain  down  in  his  clothes,  in  or- 
der to  Ikj  prepared  for  any  emergency.  He  called 
Cato.  The  Hindu  was  at  hand.  "Cato,  keep 
close  to  me  whatever  happens,  for  you  will  be 
needed."  "Yes,  Sahib."  He  then' hurried  to 
Beatrice's  room  and  knocked.  It  was  opened  at 
once.  She  came  forth  with  her  pale,  serene  face, 
and  looked  at  him. 

"I  did  not  lie  down,"  said  she.  "I  knew 
that  there  would  be  something  frightful.  But 
I  am  not  afraid.  At  any  rate,"  she  added,  "I 
know  I  will  not  be  deserted." 

Brandon  said  nothing,  but  held  out  to  her  an 
India-rubber  life-preserver.  "  What  is  this  for?" 
'  P'or  you.  I  wish  you  to  put  it  on.  It  may  not 
be  needed,  but  it  is  best  to  have  it  on."  "And 
what  will  you  do?"  "  I — oh!  I  can  swim,  you 
know.  But  you  don't  know  how  to  fasten  it. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  do  so?"  She  raised  her 
arms.  He  passed  the  belt  around  her  waist,  en- 
circling her  almost  in  his  arms  while  doing  so, 
and  his  hand,  which  had  boldly  grasped  the  head 
of  the  "dweller  in  the  wreck,"  now  trembled  as 
he  fastened  the  belt  around  that  delicate  and 
slender  waist. 

But  scarcely  had  this  been  completed  when  the 
s(juall  struck  the  ship,  and  the  waves  followed 
till  the  vessel  was  thrown  far  over  on  her  side; 
ti  id  Brandon  seizing  Beatrice  in  one  arm,  clung 
»vith  the  other  to  the  edge  of  the  skylight,  and 
thus  kept  himself  upright. 

He  rested  now  for  a  moment.  "I  must  go 
on  deck,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  wish  you  to  leave 
me,"  was  her  answer.  Nothing  more  was  said. 
Brandon  at  once  lifted  her  with  one  arm  as 
though  she  were  a  child  and  clambered  along, 
grasping  such  fixtures  as  afforded  any  thing  to 
which  he  could  cling ;  and  thus,  with  hands  and 
feet,  groped  his  way  to  the  door  of  the  cabin, 
which  was  on  the  windward  side.  There  were 
two  doors,  and  between  them  was  a  seat. 

"  This,"  said  he,  "is  the  safest  place  for  yon. 
Can  you  hold  on  for  a  short  time?  If  I  take 
you  on  deck  you  will  be  exposed  to  the  waves. " 
"I  will  do  whatever  you  say,"  she  replied; 
and  clinging  to  the  arm  of  the  almost  perpen- 
dicular seat,  she  was  able  to  sustain  herself  there 
amidst  the  tossing  and  swaying  of  the  ship. 

Brandon  then  clambered  out  on  deck.  The 
ship  lay  far  over.  The  waves  came  leaping  upon 
her  in  successive  surges.  All  around  the  sea 
was  glistening  with  phosphorescent  lustre,  and 
when  at  times  the  lightning  flashed  forth  it  light- 
ed np  the  scene,  and  showed  the  ocean  stirred  up 
to  fiercest  commotion.  It  seemed  as  though 
cataracts  of  water  were  rushing  over  the  doom- 
ed ship,  which  now  lay  helpless,  and  at  the  mer- 
cy of  the  billows.  The  force  of  the  wind  was 
tremendous,  exceeding  any  thing  that  Brandon 
had  ever  witnessed  before. 
What  most  surprised  him  now  was  the  inaction 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


of  the  »hip*i  company.  Why  waa  not  Domething 
being  duna?    Where  wnii  the  Cnptain? 

I'u  called  out  hiit  name;  there  wan  no  re- 
sponse, lie  railed  after  the  iniito;  there  wai 
no  answer.  Instantly  he  conjectured  that  in  the 
flmt  fien-e  onset  of  the  storm  IkhIi  Captain  and 
mate  had  hecn  swept  a\/ay.  llow  many  moru 
of  tliat  giillant  company  of  lira>e  fellows  had 
perished  ho  knew  not.  The  hour  was  a  perilous 
and  a  critical  one.  Ho  himself  determined  to 
take  the  lead. 

Through  the  midst  of  the  storm,  with  its  tu- 
mult and  its  Airy,  there  ciune  a  voice  as  full  and 
clear  as  a  trumpet-peal,  which  roused  all  the 
sailors,  and  inspired  them  once  more  with  hope. 
*'  Cut  away  the  masts ! "  The  men  olH'ycd,  with- 
out caring  who  gave  the  order.  It  was  the  com- 
mand which  each  man  had  l>een  cx|)ecting,  and 
which  ho  knew  was  the  thing  that  should  be 
done.  At  once  they  sprang  to  their  work.  The 
main-mast  had  already  l>cen  cut  UM>8e.  Some 
went  to  the  fore-mast,  others  to  the  mizzon.  The 
vast  waves  rolled  on ;  the  sailors  guarded  as  best 
they  could  against  the  rush  of  each  wave,  and 
then  sprang  in  the  inter>'als  to  their  work.  It 
was  perilous  in  the  highest  degree,  but  each  man 
felt  that  his  own  lifo  and  the  lives  of  all  the  oth- 
ers <lependetl  upon  the  accomplishment  of  this 
work,  and  this  nen'ed  the  arm  of  each  to  the  task. 

At  last  it  was  done.  The  lost  strand  of  rig- 
ging had  been  cut  away.  The  ship,  disencum- 
bered, slowly  righted,  and  at  last  rode  upright. 

But  her  situation  was  still  dangerous.  8he 
lay  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  and  the  gigantic 
waves,  as  they  rolled  up,  still  beat  upon  her  with 
all  their  concentrated  energies.  Helpless,  and 
now  altogether  at  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  the 
only  ho|>e  left  those  on  board  lay  in  the  strength 
of  the  ship  herself. 

None  of  the  officers  were  left.  As  the  ship 
righted  Brandon  thought  that  some  of  them 
might  make  their  appearance,  but  none  came. 
The  Captain,  the  mate,  and  the  second  mate,  all 
had  gone.  Perhaps  all  of  them,  as  they  stood 
on  the  quarter-deck,  had  l)een  swept  away  simul- 
taneously. Nothing  could  now  be  done  but  to 
wait.  Morning  at  last  came  to  the  anxious 
watchers.  It  brought  no  hope.  Far  and  wide 
the  sea  raged  with  all  its  waves.  The  wind 
blew  with  undiminished  and  irresistible  violence. 
The  ship,  still  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  heaved 
and  plunged  in  the  overwhelming  waves,  which 
howled  madly  around  and  leaped  over  her  like 
wolves  eager  for  their  prey.  The  wind  was  too 
fierce  to  permit  even  an  attempt  to  rig  a  jury- 
maat. 

The  ship  was  also  deeply  laden,  and  this  con- 
tributed to  her  peril.  Had  her  cargo  been  small- 
er she  would  have  been  more  buoyant ;  but  her 
full  cargo,  added  to  her  dangerous  position  as 
she  lay  at  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  made  all  hope 
of  escape  dark  indeed. 

Another  night  succeeded.  It  was  a  night  of 
equal  horror.  The  men  stood  watching  anx- 
iously for  some  sign  of  abatement  in  the  storm, 
but  none  came.  Sea  and  sky  frowned  over  them 
darkly,  and  all  the  powers  which  they  controlled 
were  let  loose  unrestrained. 

Another  day  and  night  came  and  went.  Had 
not  the  Falcon  been  a  ship  of  unusual  strength 
she  would  have  yielded  before  this  to  the  storm. 
A»  it  was,  she  began  to  show  signs  of  giving  way 


to  the  tremendous  hammering  to  which  she  had 
lieen  ex|H>Hed,  ana  her  heavy  Australian  cargo 
l>ure  her  down.  On  the  moniing  of  the  third 
(Uy  Brand(m  saw  that  she  was  dee|ter  in  Uit 
water,  and  suspected  a  leak.  lie  ordered  the 
pumps  to  be  sounded.  It  was  as  he  feurod. 
There  were  four  feet  of  water  in  the  hold. 

The  men  went  to  work  at  the  )iuni|H<  and 
worked  by  rehiys.  Amidst  the  rush  of  the  waves 
over  the  ship  it  was  difficult  to  work  lulvanta- 
ge«>usly,  but  they  toiled  on.  Mill,  in  spite  of 
their  efforts,  the  leak  seemed  to  have  increased, 
for  the  water  did  not  lessen.  With  their  utmost 
exertion  they  could  do  little  more  than  hold 
their  own. 

It  wiu«  ]>lain  that  this  sort  of  thing  could  not 
last.  Already  three  nights  and  three  days  of 
incessant  toil  and  anxiety,  in  which  no  one  had 
slept,  had  pn)duced  their  natural  eflects.  The 
men  had  Itecome  faint  and  weary.  But  the 
brave  fellows  never  murmured ;  they  tlid  every 
thing  which  Brandon  ordered,  and  worked  im- 
complainingly. 

Thus,  through  the  third  day,  they  labored  on, 
and  into  the  fourth  night.  That  night  the  storm 
seemed  to  have  reached  its  climax,  if,  indeed, 
any  climax  could  Ite  found  to  a  storm  which  at 
the  very  outset  had  burst  u|Hin  them  with  such 
appalling  suddenness  and  fury,  and  had  sustained 
itself  all  along  with  such  unremitting  energ)-. 
But  on  that  night  it  was  worse  for  those  on 
l)oard,  since  the  ship  which  had  resisted  so  long 
began  to  exhibit  signs  of  yielding,  her  ))lanks  and 
timbers  so  severely  assailed  began  to  give  way, 
and  through  the  gaping  seams  the  ocean  waters 
permeated,  till  the  ocean,  like  some  beleaguering 
army,  failing  in  direct  assault,  began  to  succeed 
by  o})ening  secret  mines  to  the  very  heart  of  the 
besieged  ship. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  all  hands 
were  exhausted  from  night-long  work,  and  there 
were  ten  feet  of  water  in  the  hold. 

It  now  became  evident  that  the  ship  was  doom- 
ed. Brandon  at  once  began  to  take  measures 
for  the  safety  of  the  men. 

On  that  memorable  day  of  the  calm  pre^nous 
to  the  outbreak  of  the  storm,  the  Cai>tain  had 
told  Brandon  that  they  were  alK)Ht  five  hundred 
miles  to  the  westward  of  the  coast  of  Senegam- 
bia.  He  could  not  form  any  idea  of  the  distance 
which  the  ship  had  drifted  during  the  progress 
of  the  storm,  but  justly  considered  that  whatev- 
er progress  she  had  made  had  been  toward  the 
land.  Their  prospects  in  that  direction,  if  they 
could  only  reach  it,  were  not  hopeless.  Sierra 
I^eone  and  Liberia  were  there ;  and  if  they  struck 
the  coast  any  where  about  they  might  make  their 
way  to  either  of  those  places. 

Bat  the  question  was  how  to  get  there.  There 
was  only  one  way,  and  that  was  by  taking  to  tlu) 
boats.  This  was  a  desperate  undertaking,  but 
it  was  the  only  way  of  escape  now  left. 

There  were  three  boats  on  board — viz.,  the 
long-boat,  the  cutter,  and  the  gig.  The^e  were 
the  only  hope  now  left  them.  By  venturing  in 
these  there  would  be  a  chance  of  escape. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  when  it 
was  found  that  the  water  was  increasing,  Bran- 
don called  the  men  together  and  stated  this  to 
them.  He  then  told  them  that  it  would  be  nec- 
essary to  divide  themselves  so  that  a  suificient 
number  should  go  in  each  boat.     He  offered  to 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


pve  up  to  them  the  two  larger  boat*,  and  take  the 
gig  fur  himself,  his  xervant,  an4  the  yuiiiiK  lady. 

To  thi»  the  nieii  nsnentod  with  great  rcadineitM.  . 
Some  of  them  urged  him  to  go  in  the  hirger  liottt,  i 
and  even  oifere<l  to  exchange  with  him ;  but  | 
Drnndon  declined. 

They  then  prepared  for  their  denperate  Ten- 1 
tiire.     All  the  provifionn  and  water  that  could  'i 
\<c  needed  were  put  on  board  of  each  lH)at.    Firc- 
unns  were  not  forgotten.     ArrangementH  were 
made  for  a  long  and  arduous  voyage.     The  men 
Htill  worked  at  the  ]ium|m ;  and  though  the  wa- 
ter gained  on  them,  yet  time  wai*  gained  tor  | 
completing  thexc  imi>ortant  preiwrationH.  i 

About  mid-day  all  was  ready.     Fifteen  feet  of 
water  were  in  the  hold.     The  ship  could  not  last ' 
much  longer.     Tlicre  was  no  time  to  lose. 

But  how  could  the  boatH  l>e  jiut  out?  How 
could  they  live  in  such  a  sec.  ?  'lliis  was  the  ({ues- 
tion  to  be  decided. 

The  ship  lay  as  before  i.i  the  trough  of  the  sea. 
On  the  windward  side  tiie  waves  cume  rushing 
up,  beating  u|K)n  and  nweeping  over  her.  On 
the  leeward  the  water  was  calmer,  but  the  waves 
tossed  and  raged  angrily  even  there. 

Only  twenty  were  'eft  out  of  the  ship's  com- 
pany. The  rest  we/o  all  missing.  Of  these, 
fourteen  were  to  go  in  the  long-boat,  and  six  in 
the  cutter.  Brandjn,  lieatrice,  and  Cato  were 
to  take  the  gig. 

The  sailors  put.  the  gig  out  first.  The  light 
boat  floated  buoyantly  on  the  waters.  Cato 
leaited  into  her^  and  she  was  fastened  by  a  long 
line  to  the  ship.  The  nimble  Hindu,  traine<l  for 
a  lifetime  to  encounter  the  giant  surges  of  the 
Malabar  coast,  managed  the  little  boat  with  mar- 
velous dexterity  —  avoiding  the  sweep  of  the 
waves  which  dashed  around,  and  keeping  suf- 
ficiently under  the  lee  to  escajie  the  rougher 
waves,  yet  not  so  much  so  as  to  be  hurled  against 
tlie  vessel. 

Then  the  sailors  put  out  the  long-boat.  This 
was  a  difficult  undertaking,  but  it  was  success- 
fully accomplished,  and  the  men  were  all  on 
board  at  lost.  Instantly  they  prepared  to  row 
away. 

At  that  moment  a  wilder  wave  came  pouring 
over  the  ship.  It  was  as  though  the  ocean,  en- 
raged at  the  escape  of  these  men,  had  made  a 
final  eft'ort  to  gnusp  its  prey.  Before  the  boat 
with  its  living  freight  had  got  rid  of  the  vessel, 
the  sweep  of  this  gigantic  wave,  which  had  pass- 
ed completely  over  the  shij),  struck  it  where  it 
ky.  Brandon  turned  away  his  eyes  involun- 
tarily. 

There  was  a  wild  shriek — the  next  moment 
the  black  outline  of  the  long-boat,  bottom  up- 
ward, was  seen  amidst  the  foaming  billows. 

The  men  who  waited  to  launch  the  cutter  were 
at  first  paralyzed  by  this  tragedy,  but  there  was 
no  time  to  lose.  Death  threatened  them  behind 
as  well  as  before ;  behind,  death  was  certain ; 
before,  there  was  still  a  chance.  They  launched 
the  cutter  in  desperation.  The  six  men  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  into  her,  and  in  rowing  out  at 
some  distance.  As  wave  after  wave  rose  and 
fell  she  disappeared  from  view,  and  then  reap- 
peared, till  at  last  Brandon  thought  that  she  at 
least  was  safe. 

Then  he  raised  his  hand  and  made  a  peculiar 
signal  to  Cato. 

The  Hindu  understood  it.    Brandon  had  given 


him  hilt  direction*  before.  Now  was  the  time. 
The  n)ll  of  the  waves  coming  up  waa  for  tlio 
present  less  dangerous. 

Beatrice,  who  during  the  whole  storm  had  t>een 
calm,  and  hod  quietly  done  whatever  Brandon 
tuld  her,  was  now  waiting  at  the  cabin-door  in 
obedience  to  his  directions. 

As  soon  OS  Brandon  had  mode  the  signal  he 
hurried  to  the  cabin-door  and  assisted  Beatrice 
to  the  (|uarter-deck.  Cato  rowed  his  t)oat  close 
up  to  the  ship,  and  was  waiting  for  a  chance  to 
come  within  reach.  •  The  waves  were  still  more 
moderate.  It  was  the  opportunity  for  which 
Cato  had  been  watching  so  long.  He  held  his 
oars  poised,  and,  as  a  sudden  swell  of  a  wave 
rose  near  tlie  ship,  he  forced  his  boat  so  that  it 
came  close  beside  it,  rising  high  on  the  crest  of 
the  swell. 

As  the  wave  rose  Brandon  also  had  watched 
his  opportunity  as  well  as  the  action  of  Cato.  It 
was  the  moment  too  for  which  he  had  lieen  watch- 
ing. In  an  instant,  and  without  a  word,  he 
caught  Beatrice  in  his  arms,  raised  her  high  in 
the  air,  poised  himself  for  a  moment  on  the  edge 
of  the  quarter-deck,  and  sprang  forward  into  the 
boat.  His  foot  restud  firmly  on  the  seat  where 
it  struck.  He  set  Beatrice  down,  and  with  a 
knife  severed  the  line  which  connected  the  boat 
with  the  ship. 

Then  seizing  an  oar  he  began  to  row  with  all 
his  strength.  Cato  had  the  bow  oa>.  The  next 
wave  came,  and  its  sweep,  communicating  itself 
to  the  water,  rolled  on,  dashing  against  the  ship 
and  moving  under  it,  rising  up  high,  lifting  the 
boat  with  it,  and  bearing  it  along.  But  the  l>oat 
was  now  under  command,  and  the  two  rowera 
held  it  so  that  while  it  was  able  to  avoid  the  dash 
of  the  water,  it  could  yet  gain  from  it  all  the  mo- 
mentum that  could  be  given. 

Brandon  handled  the  oar  with  a  dexterity 
equal  to  that  of  the  Hindu,  uud  under  such  man- 
agement, which  wns  at  once  strong  and  skillful, 
the  boat  skimmed  lightly  over  the  crests  of  the 
rolling  waves,  and  passed  out  into  the  sea  beyond. 
There  the  great  surges  came  sweeping  on,  rising 
high  behind  the  boat,  each  wave  seeming  about 
to  crush  the  little  bark  in  its  resistless  grasp,  but 
notwithstanding  the  threat  the  boat  seeme<l  al- 
ways able  by  some  good  luck  to  avoid  the  im- 
pending danger,  for  as  each  wave  came  forward 
the  boat  would  rise  up  till  it  was  on  a  level  with 
the  crest,  and  the  flood  of  waters  would  sweep 
on  underneath,  bearing  it  onward. 

/  fter  nearly  half  an  hour's  anxious  and  care- 
ful rowing  Brandon  looked  all  about  to  find  the 
cutter.  It  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Again  and 
again  he  looked  for  it,  seeking  in  all  directions. 
But  he  discovered  no  sign  of  it  on  the  raging  wa- 
ters, and  at  last  he  could  no  longer  doubt  that 
the  cutter  also,  like  the  long-boat,  had  perished 
in  the  sea. 

All  day  long  they  rowed  before  the  wind  and 
wave — not  strongly,  but  lightly,  so  as  to  husband 
their  strength.  Night  came,  when  Brandon  and 
Cato  took  turns  at  the  oars — not  over-exerting 
themselves,  but  seeking  chiefly  to  keep  the  boat's 
head  in  a  proper  direction,  and  to  evade  the  rush 
of  the  waves.  This  last  was  their  constant  dan- 
ger, and  it  required  the  utmost  skill  and  the  most 
incessant  watchfulness  to  do  so. 

All  this  time  Beatrice  sat  in  the  stern,  with  a 
heavv  oil-cioth  coat  around  her,  which  Brandon 


M 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


directed  her  to  put  on,  snyina;  nothing,  hnt  see- 
ing every  thing  with  her  watciiful,  vigilant  eyes. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  said  Brandon  once,  just 
after  they  had  evaded  an  enormous  wave. 

"No!"  was  the  reply,  in  a  calm,  sweet  voice; 
"I  trust  in  you." 

"  I  hope  your  trust  may  not  he  vain,*'  replied 
Brandon. 

"You  have  saved  my  life  so  often,"  said  Bea- 
trice, "that  my  trust  in  you  has  now  become  a 
habit." 

Shs  smiled  faintly  as  she  spoke.  There  was 
Mmething  in  her  tone  which  sank  deep  into  his 
<9onl. 

The  night  passed  and  morning  came. 

For  the  last  lialf  of  the  night  the  wind  had 
beer,  much  less  boisterous,  and  toward  morning 


the  gale  had  very  greatly  subsided.  Brandon's 
foresight  had  secured  a  mast  and  sail  on  board 
the  gig,  and  now,  as  soon  as  it  could  be  erected 
with  safety,  he  put  it  uj),  and  the  little  boat  dashed 
bravely  over  the  waters.  The  waves  had  lessened 
greatly  as  the  day  wore  on ;  they  no  longer  rose 
in  such  giant  masses,  but  showed  merely  the  more 
common  proportions.  Brandon  and  Cato  now 
had  an  opportunity  to  get  some  rest  from  their 
exhaustive  labors.  Beatrice  at  last  yielded  to 
Brandon's  eimeat  request,  and,  finding  that  the 
immediat';  peril  Iiad  passed,  and  that  his  toil  for 
the  presfnt  vas  over,  she  obtained  some  sleep 
and  rest  for  lierself. 

For  sM  tliat  day,  and  all  that  night,  and  nil 
the  ney  t  dny,  the  little  boat  sped  over  the  waters, 
heading  d'le  e-ast,  so  as  to  reach  land  whereret 


CORD  AND  CHEESE. 


67 


th>>y  might  find  it,  in  the  hop«  that  the  land 
iiiiKlit  not  bo  %ery  far  away  from  the  civilizetl 
tettiementi  of  the  coast.  'I'he  proviaionn  and 
water  which  had  l>een  pt\t  in  the  boat  formed 
an  ample  supply,  which  would  lust  for  a  long 
time.  Brandon  shared  with  Cato  in  the  man- 
ii^ement  of  the  boat,  not  allowing  his  man  to 
have  more  of  the  labor  than  himself. 

During  theite  days  Brandon  and  Beatrice  were 
of  course  thrown  into  ft  closer  intimacy.  At  such 
a  tinr.e  the  nature  of  man  or  woman  becomes  most 
npparent,  and  here  Beatrice  showed  a  noble  calm 
and  a  simple  trust  which  to  Brandon  was  most 
touching.  He  knew  that  she  must  feel  m(;st 
keenly  the  fatigue  and  the  privations  of  such  a 
life;  but  her  untrarying  cheerfulness  was  the 
»nme  as  it  had  been  on  shipboard.  He,  too,  exhib- 
ited that  same  constancy  and  resolution  which  he 
had  always  evinced,  and  by  his  consideration  for 
Cato  showed  his  natural  kindness  of  heart. 

"How  sorry  I  am  that  I  can  do  nothing!" 
Beatrice  would  say.  "  You  are  killing  yourself, 
and  I  have  to  sit  idle  and  gain  my  safety  at  your 
expense." 

"The  fact  that  yon  are  yet  safe,"  Brandon 
would  reply,  "is  enough  for  me.  As  long  as  I 
see  you  sitting  there  I  can  work." 

"But  can  I  do  nothing?  It  is  hard  for  me 
to  sit  idle  while  you  wear  out  your  life." 

"  You  can  sing,"  said  Brandon. 

"What?" 

"Langhetti's  song,"  he  said,  and  turned  his 
face  nway. 

She  sang  at  once.  Her  tones  rose  in  mar\el- 
ous  niiodulations ;  the  words  were  not  much,  but 
the  music  with  which  she  clothed  them  seemed 
again  to  utter  forth  that  longing  which  Brandon 
had  heard  before. 

Now,  as  they  passed  over  the  seas,  Beatrice 
sang,  and  Brandon  did  not  wish  that  this  life 
should  end.  Through  the  days,  as  they  sailed 
on,  her  voice  arose  expressive  of  every  changeful 
feeling,  now  speaking  of  grief,  now  swelling  in 
sweet  strains  of  hope. 

Day  thus  succeeded  to  day  until  the  fourth 
night  came,  when  the  wind  died  out  and  a  calm 
spread  over  the  waters. 

Brandon,  who  waked  at  about  two  in  the 
morning  so  as  to  let  Cato  sleep,  saw  that  the 
wind  had  ceased,  and  that  another  one  of  those 
treacherous  calms  had  come.  He  at  once  put 
out  the  oars,  and,  directing  Cato  to  sleep  till  he 
waked  him,  began  to  pull. 

Beatrice  remonstrated.  "Do  not,"  said  she, 
in  an  imploring  tone.  "  You  have  already  done 
too  much.     Why  should  you  kill  yourself?" 

"The  wind  has  stopped,"  answered  Brandon. 
"  The  calm  is  treacherous,  and  no  time  ought  to 
be  lost." 

"  But  wait  till  you  have  rested." 

"  I  have  been  resting  for  days." 

"  Why  do  you  not  rest  during  the  night  and 
work  in  the  daytime  ?" 

"Because  the  daytime  is  so  frightfully  hot 
that  work  will  be  difficult.  Night  is  the  time  to 
work  now. " 

Brandon  kept  at  his  oars,  and  Beatrice  saw 
that  remonstrances  were  useless.  He  rowed 
steadily  until  the  break  of  day ;  then,  as  day  was 
dawning,  he  rested  for  a  while,  and  looked  earn- 
estly toward  the  east. 

A  low,  dark  cloud  lay  along  the  eastern  hori- 
D 


con,  well-defined  against  the  sky,  which  now  wna 
gn)wing  brighter  and  brighter  erery  hour.  Was 
it  cloud,  or  whs  it  something  else?  Thij  wu 
the  question  that  rose  in  Brandon's  mind. 

The  sky  grew  brighter,  the  scene  far  and  wide 
opened  up  before  the  gathering  light  until  at  last 
the  sun  began  to  appear.  Then  there  waa  no 
longer  any  doubt.     It  was  Land. 

This  he  told  to  Beatrice ;  and  the  Hindu, 
waking  at  the  same  time,  looke<l  earnestly  to- 
ward that  shore  which  they  had  lieen  striving  so 
long  and  so  earnestly  to  reach.  It  was  land,  but 
what  land  ?  No  doubt  it  was  some  part  of  the 
coast  of  iSenegambia,  but  what  one?  Along 
that  extensive  coast  there  were  many  places 
where  landing  might  be  certain  death,  or  some- 
thing Worse  than  death,  i^avage  tribes  might 
dwell  there — either  those  which  were  demoral- 
ized by  dealings  with  slave-traders,  or  those 
which  were  flourishing  in  native  barbarism.  Yet 
only  one  course  was  now  advisable ;  namely,  to 
go  on  till  they  reached  the  shore. 

It  api)eared  to  be  about  fifty  miles  away.  So 
Brandon  judged,  and  so  it  prove*!.  The  land 
which  they  had  seen  was  the  summit  of  lofty 
hills  which  were  visible  from  a  great  dirtance. 
They  rowed  on  all  that  day.  The  water  was 
calm  and  glassy.  The  sua  poured  down  its  most 
fervid  beams,  the  air  wai  sultry  and  oppressive. 
Beatrice  entreated  Brandon  new  to  di;sist  from 
rowing  and  wait  till  the  cool  of  the  night,  but  he 
was  afraid  that  a  storm  might  come  u))  suddenly. 
"No,"  he  said,  "our  only  hope  new  is  to  get 
near  the  land,  so  that  if  a  storm  does  come  up 
we  may  have  some  place  of  shelter  vrithin  reach.  ' 

After  a  day  of  exhaustive  labor  the  land  was 
at  last'  reached. 

High  hills,  coTered  with  palin -trees,  rose  be- 
fore them.  There  was  no  harVor  within  sight, 
no  river  outlet,  but  a  long,  uninterrupted  extent 
of  high,  wooded  shores.  Here  in  the  evening 
they  rested  on  their  oars,  and  looked  earnestly 
at  the  shore. 

Brandon  conjectured  tbnt  they  were  some- 
what to  the  north  of  Merrj.  Leone,  and  did  not 
think  that  they  could  be  to  the  south.  At  any 
rate,  a  southeasterly  cou'.-ie  was  the  surest  one 
for  them,  for  they  would  reach  either  Sierra  Le- 
one or  Liberia.  The  difitance  which  they  might 
have  to  go  was,  howc  er,  totally  imcertain  to 
him. 

So  they  turned  the  boat's  head  southeast,  and 
moved  in  a  line  parallel  with  the  general  line  of 
the  shore.  That  shore  varied  in  its  features  as 
they  passed  along:  sometimes  depressed  into 
low,  wide  savannas ;  at  others,  rising  into  a  roll- 
ing country,  v/ith  hills  of  moderate  height,  be- 
hind which  appeared  the  summits  of  lofty  mount- 
ains, empurpled  by  distance. 

It  was  evening  when  they  first  saw  the  land, 
and  then  they  went  on  without  pausing.  It  was 
arranged  that  they  should  row  alternately,  as 
moderately  as  possible,  so  as  to  husband  their 
strength.  Cato  rowed  for  the  first  part  of  that 
night,  then  Brandon  rowed  till  morning.  On  the 
following  day  Cato  took  the  oars  again. 

It  was  now  just  a  week  since  the  wreck,  and 
for  the  last  two  days  there  had  not  been  a  breath 
of  wind  in  the  air,  nor  the  faintest  ripple  on 
that  burning  water.  To  use  even  the  slightey.t 
exertion  in  such  torrid  heat  was  almost  impos- 
sible.    Even  to  sit  still  luider  that  blighting  sun, 


58 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


with  the  reflected  glare  from  the  dead,  dark  sea 
around,  was  painful. 

Beatrice  redoubled  her  entreaties  ta  Brandon 
that  he  should  rest.  8he  wished  to  hare  her 
mantle  spread  over  their  heads  as  a  kind  of  can- 
opy, or  fix  the  sail  in  some  way  and  float  idly 
through  the  hottest  part  of  the  day.  But  Bran- 
don insisted  that  he  felt  no  evil  eflects  as  yet ; 
and  promised  when  he  did  feel  such  to  do  as  she 
said. 

At  last  they  discovered  that  their  water  was 
almost  out,  and  it  yf&a  necessary  to  get  a  fresh 
supply.  It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  seventh 
day.  Brandon  had  been  rowing  ever  since  mid- 
day. Beatrice  had  wound  her  mantle  about  his 
head  in  the  style  of  an  Eastern  turban  so  as  to 
protect  him  from  the  sun's  rays.  Looking  out 
tor  some  place  along  the  shore  where  they  might 
obtain  water,  they  saw  an  opening  in  the  line  of 
roost  where  two  hills  arose  to  a  height  of  several 
hundred  feet.     Toward  this  Brandon  rowed. 

Stimulated  by  the  prospect  of  sotting  foot  on 
shore  Brandon  rowed  somewhat  more  vigorously 
than  usual ;  and  in  about  an  hour  the  boat  en- 
tered a  beautiful  little  cove  shut  in  between  two 
hills,  which  formed  the  outlet  of  a  river.  Far 
up  its  winding  course  could  be  traced  by  the 
trees  along  its  borders.  The  hills  rose  on  each 
side  with  a  steep  slope,  and  were  covered  with 
palms.  The  front  of  the  harbor  was  shut  in 
from  the  sea  by  a  beautiful  little  wooded  island. 
Here  Brandon  rowed  the  boat  into  this  cove; 
and  its  prow  grated  against  the  pebbles  of  the 
beach. 

Beatrice  had  uttered  many  exclamations  of 
delight  at  the  beauty  of  tliis  scene.  At  length, 
surprised  at  Brandon's  silence,  she  cried, 

"Why  do  you  not  say  something?  Surely 
this  is  a  Paradise  after  the  sea !" 

She  looked  up  with  an  enthusiastic  smile. 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet.  A  strange,  vacant 
expression  was  in  his  eyes.  He  made  a  step  for- 
ward as  if  to  land.  His  unsteady  foot  trembled. 
'  He  reeled,  and  stretched  out  his  arms  Uke  some 
one  groping  in  the  dark. 

Beatrice  shrieked  and  sprang  forward.  Too 
late ;  for  the  next  m  jmcnt  he  fell  headlong  into 
the  water. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

THE  BADINAGE  OF  OLD  FRIENDS. 

The  town  of  Holby  is  on  tlie  coast  of  Pem- 
broke. It  has  a  small  harbor,  with  a  light-house, 
and  the  town  itself  contains  a  few  thousand  peo- 
ple, most  of  them  belonging  to  the  poorer  class. 
The  chief  house  in  the  town  stands  on  a  rising 
ground  a  litde  outside,  looking  toward  the  water. 
Its  size  and  situation  render  it  the  most  conspicu- 
ous object  in  the  neighborhood. 

This  house,  from  its  appearance,  must  have 
been  built  more  than  a  century  before.  It  be- 
longed to  an  old  family  which  had  become  ex- 
tinct, and  now  was  occupied  by  a  new  owner,  who 
had  given  it  another  name.  This  new  owner  was 
William  Thornton,  Esq.,  solicitor,  who  had  an 
office  in  Holby,  and  who,  though  very  wealthy, 
still  attended  to  his  business  with  undiminished 
applicAtiop.  The  house  had  been  originally  pur- 
chased by  the  father  of  the  present  occupant, 
Heuiy  Thornton,  a  well-known  lawyer  in  these 


parts,  who  had  settled  here  originally  a  poor 
young  man,  but  had  Anally  grown  gray  and  rich 
m  his  adopted  home.  He  had  bought  the  j)lace 
when  it  was  exposed  for  sale,  with  the  intention 
of  founding  a  new  seat  for  his  own  family,  and 
had  given  it  the  name  of  Thornton  Grange. 

Generations  of  care  and  tasteful  culture  had 
made  Thornton  Grange  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
places  in  the  county.  All  around  were  wido 
parks  dotted  with  ponds  and  clumps  of  treee. 
An  avenue  of  elms  led  up  to  the  door.  A  well- 
kept  lawn  was  in  front,  and  behind  was  an  ex- 
tensive grove.  Every  thing  spoke  of  wealth  and 
elegance. 

On  an  afternoon  in  February  a  gendeman  in 
clerical  dress  walked  up  the  avenue,  rang  at  the 
door,  and  enteiing  he  gave  his  name  to  the  serv- 
ant as  the  Rev.  Courtenay  Despard.  He  was  the 
new  Rector  of  Holby,  and  had  only  been  there 
one  week. 

He  entered  the  drawing-ix)om,  sat  down  upon 
one  of  the  many  lounging  chairs  with  which 
it  was  filled,  and  waited.  He  did  not  have  to 
wait  long.  A  rapid  step  was  soon  heard  de- 
scending the  stairs,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  lady 
entered.  She  come  in  with  a  bright  smile  of 
welcome  on  her  face,  and  greeted  him  with  much 
warmth. 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  very  striking  in  her  appear- 
ance. A  clear  olive  complexion  and  large,  dark 
hazel  eyes  marked  Southern  blood.  Her  hair 
was  black,  wavy,  and  exceedingly  luxuriant.  Her 
mouth  was  small,  her  hands  and  feet  delicately 
shaped,  and  her  figure  slender  and  elegant.  Her 
whole  air  had  that  indefinable  grace  which  is  the 
sign  of  high-breeding ;  to  this  there  was  added 
exceeding  loveliness,  with  great  animation  of 
face  and  elegance  of  manner.  She  was  a  perfect 
lady,  )'et  not  of  the  Enghsh  stamp ;  for  her  looks 
and  manner  had  not  that  cold  and  phlegmatic  air 
which  England  fosters.  She  looked  rather  like 
some  ItaUan  beauty — like  those  which  enchant  us 
as  they  smile  from  the  walls  of  the  picture-gal- 
leries of  Italy. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  have  come!"  said  she. 
"It  is  so  stupid  here,  and  I  expected  you  an 
hour  ago." 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  only  known  that !"  said  Despard. 
"  For,  do  you  know,  I  have  been  dying  of  ennui." 

"  I  hope  that  I  may  be  the  means  of  dispel- 
ling it." 

"  As  surely  so  as  the  sun  disperses  the  clouds." 

"  You  are  never  at  a  loss  for  a  compliment." 

"  Never  when  I  am  with  you." 

These  few  words  were  spoken  with  a  smile  by 
each,  and  a  slightly  melodramatic  gesture,  as 
though  each  was  conscious  of  a  little  extrava- 
gance. 

"You  must  be  glad  to  get  to  your  old  home," 
she  resumed.  "You  lived  here  fifteen,  no,  six- 
teen years,  you  know." 

"Eighteen." 

"  So  it  was.     I  was  sixteen  when  you  left." 

"Never  to  see  you  again  till  I  came  back," 
said  Despard,  with  some  moumfidness,  looking 
at  the  floor. 

"  And  since  then  all  has  changed." 

"But  I  have  not,"  rejoined  Despard,  in  the 
same  tone. 

Mrs.  Thornton  said  nothing  for  a  moment . 

"  By-the-way,  I've  been  reading  such  a  nice 
book,"  she  resumed.     "It  has  just  come  out, 


CORD  AND  CREF  jE. 


69 


nnd  is  making  a  sensation.  It  would  suit  you,  I 
know.' 

"What  is  it?" 

She  rose  and  lifted  a  book  from  the  table, 
which  she  handed  to  him.  He  took  it,  and  read 
the  title  out  loud. 

"Christian's  Cross." 

A  strange  expression  passed  over  his  face.  He 
looked  at  iier,  holding  the  book  out  at  arms'- 
length  with  feigned  consternation. 

"And  do  you  iiave  the  heart  to  recommend 
this  book  to  me,  Mrs.  Thornton  ?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Why,  it's  religious.  Religious  books  are  my 
terror.  How  could  I  possibly  open  a  book  like 
this?" 

She  laughed. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  said.  "  It  is  an  or- 
dinary novel,  and  for  the  sake  of  your  peace  of 
mind  I  assure  you  that  there  is  not  a  particle  of 
religion  in  it.  But  why  should  you  look  with 
such  repugnance  upon  it?  The  expression  of 
your  face  is  simply  horror. " 

"Pietistic  bcHoks  have  been  the  bane  of  ray 
life.  The  emotional,  the  rhapsodical,  the  medi- 
tative style  c  f  book,  in  which  one  garrulously  ad- 
dresses one'b  soul  from  beginning  to  end,  is  sim- 
ply torture  to  me.  You  see  religion  is  a  different 
thing.  The  rhapsody  may  do  for  the  Taberna- 
cle people,  but  thoughtful  men  and  women  need 
something  different. " 

"lam  so  delighted  to  hear  such  sentiments 
from  a  clergyman !  They  entirely  accord  with 
my  own.  Still  I  must  own  that  your  horror 
struck  me  as  novel,  to  say  the  least  of  it. " 

"Would  you  like  me  to  try  to  proselytize 
you?" 

"  You  may  try  if  you  wish.  I  am  open  to 
conviction ;  but  the  Church  of  all  the  ages,  tlie 
Apostolic,  the  Catholic,  has  a  strong  liold  on  me. " 

"You  need  not  fear  that  I  will  ever  tiy  to 
loosen  it.  I  only  wish  that  I  may  see  your  face 
in  Trinity  Church  every  Sunday." 

"That  happiness  shall  be  yours,"  answered 
Mrs.  Thornton.  ' '  As  there  is  no  ( 'atholic  church 
here,  I  will  give  you  the  honor  of  mv  presence  at 
Trinity." 

"If  that  is  thn  case  it  will  be  a  place  of  wor- 
ship to  me. " 

He  smiled  r  j  the  extravagance  of  this  last 
remark,  and  she  only  shook  her  head. 

"That  is  a  compliment,  but  it  is  awfully  pro- 
fane. " 

"Not  profanity;  say  rather  justifiable  idol- 
atry." 

"Really,  I  feel  overcome;  I  do  not  know 
what  to  say.  At  any  rate,  I  hope  you  will  like 
the  book ;  I  know  you  will  find  it  pleasant. " 

"  Any  thing  that  comes  from  you  could  not  be 
otherwise,"  said  Despard.  "At  the  same  time 
it  is  not  my  habit  to  read  novels  singly. " 

"  Singly !    Why  how  else  can  one  read  them  ?"' 

"I  always  read  several  at  a  time." 

Mrs.  Thornton  laughed  at  the  whimsical  idea. 

"  You  see,"  said  Despard,  "  one  must  keep  up 

with  the  literature  of  the  day.     I  used  to  read 

each  book  as  it  came  out,  but  at  last  found  satiety. 

The  best  novel  palls.     For  my  own  comfort  I 

had  to  invent  a/iew  plan  to  stimulate  my  interest. 

I  will  tell  you  about  it.     I  take  ten  at  a  time, 

spread  them  on  i>e  table  in  froni  cf  me,  and  read 

each  chapter  in  succession." 


"  Ii»ii  t  that  a  little  confusing  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Despard,  gravely.  "  Prac- 
tice enables  one  to  keep  all  distinct." 

"  But  what  is  the  good  of  it  ?" 

"This,"  replied  Despard;  "you  see  in  each' 
novel  there  are  certain  situations.  Perhaps  on 
an  average  there  may  be  forty  each.  Interesting 
characters  also  may  average  ten  each.  'Thrilling 
scenes  twenty  each.  Overwhelming  catastnjphes 
fifteen  each.  Now  by  reading  novels  singly  the 
effect  of  all  this  is  weakened,  for  you  only  have 
the  work  of  each  in  its  divided,  isolated  state, 
but  where  you  read  according  to  my  plan  you 
have  the  aggregate  of  all  these  effects  in  one 
combined — that  is  to  say,  in  ten  books  which 
I  read  at  once  I  have  two  hundred  thrilling 
scenes,  one  hundred  and  fifty  overwhelming  ca- 
tastrophes, one  hundred  interesting  characters, 
and  four  hundred  situations  of  absorbing  fascina- 
tion. Do  you  not  see  what  an  advantage  there 
is  in  my  phin?  By  following  this  rule  I  have 
been  able  to  stimulate  a  somewhat  faded  appetite, 
and  to  keep  abreast  of  the  literature  of  the 
day." 

"  What  an  admirable  plan !  And  do  yon  read 
all  books  in  that  way  ?  Why,  one  could  write 
ten  novels  at  a  time  on  the  same  principle,  and 
if  so  he  ought  to  write  very  much  better." 

"I  think  I  will  try  it  some  day.     At  present 
I  am  busily  engagea  With  a  learned  treatise  on 
the  Symbolical  Nattire  of  the  Mosaic  Economy,  ■ 
and-^" 

"The— what?"  cried  Mrs.  Thornton,  breath- 
lessly.    ' '  What  was  that  ?" 

"  The  Symbolical  Nature  of  the  Mosaic  Econo- 
my," said  Despard,  placidly. 

"And  is  the  title  all  your  own  ?"  '       . 

"All  my  own." 

"Then  pray  don't  write  the  book.  The  title 
is  enough.  Publish  that,  and  see  if  it  does  not 
of  itself  by  its  own  extraordinary  merits  bring 
you  undying  fame." 

"I've  been  thinking  seriously  of  doing  »o," 
said  Despard,  "  and  I  don't  know  but  that  I  may 
follow  your  advice.  It  will  save  some  trouble, 
and  perhaps  amount  to  just  as  much  in  the 
end." 

"And  do  you  often  have  such  brilliant  fim- 
cies?" 

' '  No,  frankly,  not  often.  I  consider  that  title 
the  one  great  idea  of  my  life." 

"  But  do  not  dwell  too  much  upon  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Thornton,  in  a  warning  voice.  "It  might 
make  you  conceited." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  rejoined  the  other,  with 
a  shudder.     "  Do  you  really  think  so  ?    I  hope 
not.     At  any  rate  I  hope  you  do  not  like  con 
ceited  people?"  ,. 

"No."  '*      ■ 

"Am  I  conceited?" 

"No.  I  like  yon,"  replied  Mrs.  Thornton, 
with  a  slight  bow  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  which 
she  accompanied  with  a  smile. 

"And  I  like  you,"  said  Despard,  in  the  same 
tone. 

"  You  could  not  do  less." 

"This,"  said  Despard,  with  an  air  of  thought- 
ful seriousness,  "is  a  solemn  occasion.  After 
such  a  tender  confession  from  each  of  us  what 
remains  to  be  done  ?  WTiat  is  it  that  the  novels 
lay  down?" 

"  I'm  sure,"  returned  Mrs.  Thornton,  with  the 


60 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


same  assumed  solemnity,  "  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say.     You  must  make  the  proposition." 

"  We  can  not  do  any  thing  less  than  fly  to- 
gether." 

"I  should  think  not" 

"But  where?" 

"  And  not  only  where,  but  how  ?  By  rail,  by 
steamboat,  or  by  canal  ?  A  canal  strikes  me  as 
the  best  mode  of  flight.     It  is  secluded." 

"Free  from  observation,"  said  Despard. 

"  Quiet,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Thornton. 

"Poetic." 

"Remote." 

"Unfriended." 

"Solitary." 

"Slow." 

"And,  best  of  all,  hitherto  untried." 

"Yes,  its  novelty  is  undeniable." 

"So  much  so,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  "that  it 
overwhelms  one.  It  is  a  bright,  original  idea, 
and  in  these  days  of  commonplace  is  it  not  cred- 
itable ?  The  idea  is  mine.  Sir,  and  I  will  match 
it  with  your — what? — ^your  Symbolical  Nature 
of  the  Mosaic  Cosmogony." 

"  Economy." 

"But  Cosmogony  is  better.  AUow  me  to 
suggest  it  by  way  of  a  change." 

"It  must  be  so,  since  you  say  it;  but  I  have 
a  weakness  for  the  word  Economy.  It  is  de- 
rived from  the  Greek-;-" 

"Greek!"  exclaimed  Mra.  Thornton,  raising 
her  hands.  "  You  surely  are  not  going  to  be  so 
ungenerous  as  to  quote  Greek!  Am  I  not  a 
lady  ?  Will  you  be  so  base  as  to  take  me  at  a 
disadvantage  in  that  way?" 

"I  am  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself,  and 
you  may  consider  that  a  tacit  j\pology  is  going 
on  withm  my  mind  whenever  I  seejou." 

"You  are  forgiven,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 

"I  can  not  conceive  how  I  could  have  so  far 
iForgotten  mysdf.  I  do  not  usually  speak  Greek 
to  ladies.  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  make  my- 
self agreeable.  And  you  have  no  idea  how 
agreeable  I  cm  make  myself,  if  I  try." 

"I?  I  have  no  idea?  Is  it  you  who  say 
that,  and  to  me?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Thornton,  in 
that  slight  melodramatic  tone  which  she  had  em- 
ployed thus  far,  somewhat  exaggerated.  "After 
what  I  told  you — of  my  feelings  ?" 

"I  see  I  shall  have  to  devote  all  the  rest  of 
my  life  to  making  apologies." 

"  No.  Do  not  make  apologies.  Avoid  your 
besetting  sins.  Other\vise,  fond  as  I  am  of  you" 
— and  she  spoke  with  exaggerated  solemnity — 
"  I  must  regai'd  you  as  a  failure." 

The  conversation  went  on  uninterruptedly  in 
this  style  for  some  time.  It  appeared  to  suit 
each  of  them.  Despard's  face,  naturally  grave, 
assisted  him  toward  maintaining  the  mock-seri- 
ous tone  which  he  chose  to  adopt;  and  Mrs. 
Thornton's  peculiar  style  of  face  gave  her  the 
same  advantage.  It  pleased  each  to  express  for 
the  other  an  exaggerated  sentiment  of  regard. 
They  considered  it  banter  and  badinage.  How 
far  it  was  safe  was  another  thing.  But  they  had 
known  one  another  years  before,  and  were  only 
resuming  the  manner  of  earlier  times. 

Yet,  after  all,  was  it  safe  for  the  grave  Rector 
of  Holby  to  adopt  the  inflated  style  of  a  trouba- 
dour in  addressing  the  Lady  of  Thornton  Grange  ? 
Neither  of  them  thought  of  it.  They  simply  im- 
proved the  shinmg  hour  after  this  fashion,  until 


at  length  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the 
opening  of  folding-doors,  and  the  entrance  of  a 
servant  who  announced— -dinner. 

On  entering  the  dining-room  Despard  was 
greeted  with  respectful  formality  by  the  master 
of  the  house.  He  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  with 
the  professional  air  of  the  lawyer  about  him,  and 
an  abstracted  expression  of  face,  such  as  usually 
belongs  to  one  who  is  deeply  engrossed  in  the 
cares  of  business.  His  tone,  in  spite  of  its  friend- 
lin«»s,  was  naturally  stiff,  and  was  in  marked 
contrast  to  the  warmth  of  Mrs.  Thornton's  greet- 
ing. 

"How  do  you  like  your  new  quarters?"  he 
asked,  as  they  sat  down. 

"Very  well, "  said  Despard.  "  It  is  more  ray 
home,  you  know,  than  any  other  place.  I  lived 
there  so  many  years  as  school-boy  with  Mr.  Car- 
son that  it  seems  natural  to  take  up  my  station 
there  as  home. " 

Mr.  Thornton  relapsed  into  his  abstraction 
while  Despard  was  speaking,  who  directed  the 
remainder  of  his  conversation  to  Mrs.  Thornton. 

It  was  light,  idle  chat,  in  the  same  tone  as  that 
in  which  they  had  before  indulged.  Once  or 
twice,  at  some  unusually  extravagant  remark, 
Mr.  Thornton  looked  up  in  perplexity',  which 
was  not  lessened  on  seeing  their  perfect  gravity. 

They  had  a  long  discussion  as  to  the  meaning 
of  the  phrase  "the  day  after  to-morrow. "  Des- 
pard asserted  that  it  meant  the  same  as  eteraal 
duration,  and  insisted  that  it  mast  be  so,  since 
when  to-morrow  came  the  day  after  it  was  still 
coming,  and  when  that  came  there  was  still  the 
day  after.  He  supported  his  theory  \vith  so  much 
earnestness  that  Thornton,  after  listening  for  a 
while,  took  the  trouble  to  go  heavily  and  at 
length  into  the  whole  question,  and  conclude  it 
triumphantly  against  Despard. 

Then  the  subject  of  politics  came  up,  and  a 
probable  war  with  France  was  considered.  Des- 
pard professed  to  take  no  interest  in  the  subject, 
since,  even  if  an  invasion  took  place,  clergymen 
could  do  nothing,  lliey  were  exempt  from  mil- 
itary duty  in  common  with  gangers.  The  men- 
tion of  this  brought  on  a  long  discussion  as  to  the 
spelling  of  the  word  ganger.  Despard  asserted 
that  nobody  knew  how  it  was  spelled,  and  that, 
from  the  necessities  of  human  nature,  it  was  sim- 
ply impossible  to  tell  whether  it  was  ganger  or 
guager.  This  brought  out  Thornton  again,  who 
mentioned  several  law  papers  in  which  the  word 
had  been  correctly  written  by  his  clerks.  Des- 
pard challenged  him  on  this,  and,  because  Thorn- 
ton had  to  confess  that  he  had  not  examined  the 
word,  dictionary  in  hand,  he  claimed  a  Aictory 
over  him. 

Thornton,  at  this,  looked  away,  with  the  smile 
of  a  man  who  is  talking  unintelligible  things  to  a 
child. 

Then  followed  a  long  conversation  between 
Despard  and  Mrs.  Thornton  about  religion,  art, 
music,  and  a  miscellaneous  assemblage  of  other 
things,  which  lasted  for  a  long  time.  At  length 
he  rose  to  go.  Mrs.  Thornton  went  to  a  side- 
table  and  took  up  a  book. 

"Here," said  she,  "is  the  little  book  you  lent 
me ;  I  ought  to  have  sent  it,  but  I  thought  you 
would  come  for  it." 

"  And  so  I  will,"  said  he,  "  soine  day." 

"  Come  for  it  to-morrow." 

"  Will  vou  be  at  home?"  .         ! 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


61 


'MRS.   THORNTON,   WALKING   TO   THE  WINDOW,   LOOK£0   OUT. 


"Yes." 

"  Then  of  course  1 11  come.  And  now  I  must 
tear  myself  away.     Good-night !" 

On  the  following  day,  at  about  two  o'clock, 
Despard  called  again,  Mrs.  Thornton  had  been 
writing,  and  the  desk  was  strewn  with  papers. 

"I  know  I  am  disturbing  you,"  said  he,  after 
the  usual  gi^eetings.  "  I  see  that  you  are  writing, 
so  I  will  not  stay  but  a  moment.  I  have  come, 
you  know,  after  that  little  book." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  not  disturbing  me  at  all.  I 
have  been  trjing  to  continue  a  letter  which  I  be- 
gan to  my  brother  a  month  ago.  There  is  no 
hurrv  about  it." 

"And  how  is  Paolo?" 

"  I  have  not  heard  for  some  time,  I  ought  to 
hear  soon.  He  went  to  America  last  summer, 
and  I  have  not  had  a  word  from  him  since. 
My  letter  is  of  no  importance,  1  assure  you,  and 
now,  since  you  are  here,  you  shall  not  go.  In- 
deed, I  only  touched  it  a  minute  ago.  I  have 
been  looking  at  some  pictures  till  I  am  so  be- 
grimed and  inundated  with  dust  that  I  feel  as 
though  I  had  been  resolved  into  my  original  ele- 
ment." And  she  held  up  her  hands  with  a  pretty 
gesture  of  horror. 

Despard  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  as  she 


stood  in  her  bright  beauty  before  him.  A  sudden 
expression  of  pain  flashed  over  his  face,  succeed- 
ed by  his  usual  smile. 

"Dust  never  before  took  so  fair  a  form,"  he 
said,  and  sat  down,  looking  on  the  floor. 

"For  unfailing  power  of  compliment,  for  an 
unending  supply  of  neat  and  pretty  speeches, 
commend  me  to  the  Rev.  Courtenay  Despard." 

"Yet,  singtilarly  enough,  no  one  else  ever 
dreamed  that  of  me."  =      - 

"  Yon  were  always  SO." 

"With  you." 

"In  the  old  days." 

"  Now  lost  forever." 

Their  voices  sank  low  and  expressive  of  a  deep 
melancholy.  A  silence  followed.  Despard  at 
last,  with  a  sudden  effort,  began  talking  in  his 
usual  extravagant  strain  about  badgers  till  at  last 
Mrs.  Thornton  began  to  laugh,  and  the  radiancy 
of  their  spirits  was  restored.  "Strange,"  said  he, 
taking  up  a  prayer-book  with  a  peculiar  binding, 
on  which  there  vas  a  curiously  intertwisted  figure 
in  gilt.  "That  pattern  has  been  in  my  thoughts 
and  dreams  for  a  week," 

"How  so?"  .  :. 

"Why,  1  saw  it  m  yoi\r  hands  last  Sunday, 
and  my  eyes  were  drawn  to  it  till  its  whole  figure 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


seemftd  to  stamp  itself  on  my  mind.  See !  !  can 
trace  it  from  memory."  And,  taking  his  cane, 
he  traced  the  curiously  involved  figure  on  the 
carpet. 

"And  were  your  thoughts' fixed  on  nothing 
better  than  that  ?" 

"  I  was  engaged  in  worship,"  was  the  reply, 
with  marked  emphasis. 

"  I  must  take  another  book  next  time." 

"  Do  not.  You  will  only  force  me  to  study 
another  pattern." 

Mrs.  Thornton  laughed  lightly,  and  Despard 
looked  at  her  with  a  smile. 

"  I'm  afraid  your  thoughts  wander,"  she  said, 
lightly,  "  as  mine  do.  There  is  no  excuse  for 
you.  There  is  for  me.  For  you  know  I'm  like 
Naaman ;  I  have  to  bow  my  head  in  the  temple 
of  Baal.  After  all,"  she  continued,  in  a  more 
serious  voice,  "I  suppose  I  shall  be  able  some 
day  to  worship  before  my  own  altar,  for,  do  you 
know,  I  expect  to  end  my  days  in  a  convent." 

"And  why?" 

"For  the  purpose  of  perfect  religious  seclu- 
sion." 

Despard  looked  at  her  earnestly  for  a  moment. 
Then  his  usual  smile  broke  out. 

"Wherever  you  go  let  me  know,  and  I'll  take 
up  my  abode  outside  the  walls  and  come  and 
look  at  you  every  day  through  the  grating." 

"  And  would  that  be  a  help  to  a  religious  life  ?" 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  111  tell  you  what  would  be 
a  help.  Be  a  Sister  of  Charity.  I'll  be  a  Paul- 
ist.  m  devote  myself  to  the  sick.  Then  you 
and  I  can  go  together ;  and  when  you  are  tired 
I  can  assist  you.  I  think  that  idea  is  much  bet- 
ter than  yours." 

"Oh,  very  much,  indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Thorn 
ton,  with  a  strange,  sad  look. 

"  I  remember  a  boy  and  girl  who  once  used  to 
go  hand  in  hand  over  yonder  shore,  and — "  He 
stopped  suddenly,  and  then  hastily  added,  "and 
now  it  would  be  very  sad,  and  therefore  very  ab- 
surd, in  one  of  them  to  bring  up  old  memories." 

Mrs.  Thoraton  suddenly  rose,  and,  walking  to 
the  window,  looked  out.  "I  wonder  if  it  will 
rain  to  day!"  she  said,  in  a  sweet  voice,  full  of  a 
tremulous  melancholy. 

"  There  are  very  dark  clouds  about,"  returned 
Despard,  mournfully. 

"  I  hope  there  will  not  be  a  storm,"  she  re- 
joined, with  the  same  sadness.  Her  hands  were 
held  tightly  together  "  Some  things  will  perish 
if  a  storm  comes." 

"Let  us  pray  that  there  may  be  calm  and 
peace,"  said  Despard. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment. 
Strange  that  these  two  should  pass  so  quickly 
from  gayety  to  gloom!  Their  eyes  met,  and 
each  read  in  the  face  of  the  other  sadness  be- 
yond words. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

TWO   LETTERS. 

Despard  did  not  go  back  to  the  Grange  for 
iome  days.  About  a  week  had  passed  since  the 
scenes  narrated  in  the  preceding  chapter  when 
one  morning,  having  finished  his  breakfast,  he 
went  into  his  library  and  sat  down  at  the  table 
to  write.    A  litter  of  papers  lay  all  around.    The 


walls  were  covered  with  shelves,  filled  with  books. 
The  table  was  piled  high  with  ponderc  us  tomes. 
Manuscripts  were  strewn  around,  and  books  were 
scattered  on  the  floor.  Yet,  amidst  all  this  dis~ 
order,  tome  order  was  apparent,  for  many  of  these 
books  lay  open  in  certain  places,  and  others  were 
arranged  so  as  to  be  within  reach. 

Several  sheets  of  paper,  covered  with  writing, 
lay  before  him,  headed,  "  The  Byzantine  Poets." 
The  books  were  all  in  Greek.  It  was  the  library 
of  a  hard-working  student. 

Very  diflierent  was  the  Despard  of  the  library 
from  the  Despard  who  had  visited  the  Grange. 
A  stem  and  thoughtful  expression  was  read  in 
his  face,  and  his  eyes  had  an  abstraction  which 
would  have  done  credit  to  Mr.  Thornton  him- 
self. 

Taking  his  seat  at  the  table,  he  remained  for 
a  while  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand  in  deep 
thought.  Then  he  took  up  a  pen  and  drew  a 
piece  of  paper  before  him  to  try  it.  He  began 
to  draw  upon  it  the  same  figure  which  hv,  had 
marked  with  his  cane  on  Mrs.  "niomton's  carpet. 
He  traced  this  figure  over  and  over,  until  at  last 
the  whole  sheet  was  covered. 

Suddenly  he  fiung  do\vn  the  pen,  and,  taking 
up  the  paper,  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  mel- 
ancholy face.  ' '  What  a  poor,  weak  thing  I  am ! " 
he  muttered  at  last,  and  let  the  paper  fall  to  the 
floor.  He  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  then  re- 
sumed his  pen  and  began  to  make  some  idle 
marks.     At  length  he  began  to  draw. 

Under  the  fine  and  delicate  strokes  of  his  pjii, 
which  were  as  neat  and  as  exquisite  as  the  most 
subtle  touches  of  an  engraving,  a  picture  gradu- 
ally rose  to  view.  It  was  a  sea-side  scene.  The 
place  was  Holby  Beach.  In  the  distance  was 
the  light-house ;  and  on  ope  side  a  promontorj-, 
which  protected  the  harbor.  Upon  the  shore, 
looking  out  toward  the  sea,  was  a  beautiful  girl, 
of  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  whose  features,  as 
they  grew  beneath  his  tender  touches,  were  those 
of  Mrs.  Thornton.  Then  beside  her  there  grad- 
ually rose  another  figure,  a  youth  of  about  eight- 
een, with  smooth  face  and  clustering  locks,  who 
looked  exactly  like  what  the  llev.  Courtenay 
Despard  might  have  been  some  seven  or  eight 
years  before.  His  left  arm  was  around  her  waist, 
her  arm  was  thrown  up  till  it  touched  his  shoul- 
der, and  his  right  hand  held  hers.  Her  head 
leaned  against  him,  and  both  of  them,  with  a 
subdued  expression  of  perfect  happiness,  tinged 
with  a  certain  pensive  sadness,  were  looking  out 
upon  the  setting  sun. 

As  soon  as  he  finished  he  looked  at  the  sketch, 
and  then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  tore  it  into  a 
thousand  small  fragments.  He  drew  the  written 
manuscript  before  him  with  a  long  and  deep-drawn 
sigh,  and  began  writing  with  great  rapidity  upon 
the  subject  of  the  Byzantine  Poets.  He  had  just 
written  the  following  words : 

"The  Anacreontic  hymns  of  John  Damasce- 
nus  form  a  marked  contrast  to — '  when  the  sen- 
tence was  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 
"  Come  in !"  It  was  the  servant  with  letters  from 
the  post-office,  Despard  put  down  his  pen  grave- 
ly, and  the  man  laid  two  letters  on  the  table. 
He  waited  till  the  servant  had  departed,  then 
seizing  one  of  them,  a  small  one,  addressed  in  a 
lady's  hand,  he  pressed  it  vehemently  to  his  lips 
and  tore  it  open. 

It  was  as  follows : 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


<W 


"  Dear  Mr.  Despard, — I  suppose  I  may  nev- 
er expect  to  see  you  again.  Yet  I  must  see  you, 
for  yesterday  I  received  a  very  long  letter  from 
Paolo  of  so  singular  a  character  that  you  will 
have  to  explain  it  to  me.  I  shall  expect  you  this 
afternoon,  and  till  then,  I  remain, 
"Yours  sincerely, 

"  Teresa  Thornton. 
"Thobnton  Gkanok,  Friday." 

Despard  read  this  letter  a  score  of  times,  and 
placed  it  reverently  in  an  inner  drawer  of  his 
desk.  Ue  then  opened  the  other,  and  read  as 
follows : 

"Halifax,  Nova  Scotia,  January  12,  1847. 

"  My  dear  Cocrtenay, — I  was  very  glad  to 
hear  of  your  appointment  as  Rector  of  Holby, 
your  old  home,  and  hope  that  by  this  time  you 
are  fully  established  in  the  old  Rectory,  where 
you  spent  so  many  years.  I  was  there  often 
enough  in  poor  old  Carson's  days  to  know  that  it 
was  a  fine  old  place. 

"You  will  see  by  this  that  I  am  in  Halifax, 
Nova  Scotia.  My  regiment  was  ordered  off 
here  last  November,  and  I  am  just  beginning  to 
feel  settled.  It  is  not  so  cold  here  as  it  was  in 
Quebec.  There  is  capital  moose  hunting  up  the 
country.  I  don't  admire  my  accommodations 
much ;  but  it  is  not  a  bad  little  town,  consider- 


ing all  things.  The  people  are  pleasant,  and  therg 
is  some  stir  and  gayety  occasionally. 

"  Not  long  before  leaving  Quebec,  who  do  you 
think  turned  up  ?  No  less  a  person  than  Paolo 
Langhetti,  who  in  the  course  of  his  wanderings 
came  out  there.  He  had  known  some  extraor- 
dinary adventures  on  his  voyage  out ;  and  these 
are  the  immediate  cause  of  this  letter. 

"  He  took  passage  early  in  June  last  in  the 
ship  Tecumseh,  from  Livei-pool  for  Quebec.  It 
was  an  emigrant  ship,  and  crammed  with  pas- 
sengers. You  have  heard  all  about  the  horrors 
of  that  middle  passage,  which  occurred  last  year, 
when  those  infernal  Liverpool  merchants,  for  the 
sake  of  putting  a  few  ad(fitional  pounds  iu  their 
pockets,  sent  so  many  thousands  to  destruction. 

"The  Tecumseh  was  one  of  these.  It  was 
crammed  with  emigrants.  You  know  Langhetti's 
extraordinary  pluck,  and  his  queer  way  of  devot- 
ing himself  for  others.  Well,  what  did  he  do 
but  this :  as  soon  as  the  ship-fever  broke  out  he 
left  the  cabin  and  took  up  his  abode  in  the  steer- 
age with  the  sick  emigrants.  He  is  very  quiet 
about  this,  and  merely  says  that  he  helped  to 
mu-se  the  sick.     I  know  what  that  means. 

"  The  mortality  was  terrific.  Of  all  the  ships 
that  came  to  Quebec  on  that  fatal  summer  the 
Tecumseh  showed  the  largest  record  of  deaths. 
On  reaching  the  quarantine  station  Langhetti  at 


9* 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


once  insisted  on  continuing  his  attendance  on  the 
sick.  Hands  were  ^arce,  and  his  offer  was 
eagerly  accepted.  He  staid  down  there  ever  so 
long  till  the  worst  of  the  sickness  was  over. 

"  Among  the  passengers  on  the  Tecutiisek  were 
three  who  belonged  to  the  superior  class.  Their 
names  were  Brandon.  He  took  a  deep  interest 
in  them.  They  sutlered  very  much  fiom  sick- 
ness both  during  the  voyage  and  at  quarantine. 
The  name  at  once  attracted  him,  being  one  well 
known  both  to  him  and  to  us.  At  last  they  all 
died,  or  were  supposed  to  have  died,  at  the  quar- 
antine station.  Langhetti,  liowever,  found  that 
one  of  them  was  only  in  a  'trance  state,'  and 
his  efforts  for  resuscitation  were  successfid.  This 
one  was  a  yoimg  girl  of  not  more  than  sixteen 
years  of  age.  After  her  restoration  he  left  the 
quarantine  bringing  her  with  him,  and  came  up 
to  the  city.  Here  he  lived  for  a  month  or  so, 
mitil  at  last  he  heard  of  me  and  came  to  see  me. 

"Of  course  I  was  delighted  to  see  him,  for  1 
always  thought  him  the  noblest  fellow  tliat  ever 
breathed,  though  most  undoubtedly  cranky  if  not 
crazy.  I  told  him  we  were  going  to  Halifax, 
and  as  he  had  no  settled  plan  I  made  him  come 
here  with  me. 

"  The  girl  remained  for  a  long  time  in  a  state 
of  mental  torpor,  as  though  her  brain  had  been 
affected  by  disease,  but  the  journey  here  had  a 
beneficial  effect  on  her,  and  during  her  stay  she 
has  steadily  improved.  About  a  week  ago  Lan- 
ghetti ventured  to  ask  her  all  about  herself. 

"  What  will  you  say  when  I  tell  you  that  she  is 
the"  daughter  of  poor  lialph  Brandon,  of  Brandon 
Hall,  your  father's  friend,  whose  wretched  fate 
has  made  us  all  so  miserable.  You  know  no- 
thing of  this,  of  course ;  but  where  was  Thorn- 
ton ?  Why  did  not  he  do  something  to  prevent 
this  horror,  this  unutterable  calaniity?  Good 
God !  what  suffering  there  is  in  this  world ! 

"Now,  Courtenay,  I  come  to  the  point.  This 
poor  Edith  Brandon,  still  half-dead  from  her 
grief,  has  been  able  to  tell  us  that  she  has  still  a 
relative  living.  Her  eldest  brother  Louis  went 
to  Australia  many  years  ago.  A  few  weeks  be- 
fore her  father's  death  he  wrote  to  his  son  telling 
him  every  thing,  and  imploring  him  to  come  home. 
She  thinks  that  her  brother  must  be  in  England 
by  this  time. 

' '  I  want  you  to  hunt  up  Louis  Brandon.  Spare 
no  trouble.  In  the  name  of  God,  and  by  the 
memory  of  your  father,  whose  most  intimate 
friend  was  this  poor  old  Brandon,  I  entreat  you 
to  search  after  Louis  Brandon  till  you  find  him, 
and  let  him  know  the  fate  of  his  friends.  I  think 
if  she  could  see  him  the  joy  of  meeting  one  rela- 
tive would  restore  her  to  health. 

"  My  boy,  I  know  I  have  said  enough.  Your 
own  heart  will  impel  jou  to  do  all  that  can  be 
done  for  the  sake  of  this  poor  yoimg  girl.  You 
can  find  out  the  best  ways  of  learning  informa- 
tion. You  had  better  go  up  at  once  to  London 
and  make  arrangements  for  finding  Brandon. 
Write  me  soon,  and  let  me  know. 

"  Yoiu"  affectionate  uncle, 

"  Henry  Despaed." 

Despard  read  this  letter  over  and  over.  Then 
he  |jut  it  in  his  pocket,  and  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  in  deep  thouglit.  7'hen  he  took  out 
Mrs.  Thornton's  note  and  studied  it  for  a  long 
time.    80  the  hours  passed  away,  imtil  at  length 


two  o'clock  came  and  he  set  out  for  Thornton 
Grange. 

On  entering  the  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Thornton 
was  there. 

"  So  you  have  come  at  last,"  said  she,  as  they 
shook  hands. 

"As  if  I  would  not  come  ten  times  a  day  if 
I  could,"  was  the  answer,  in  an  impetuous  voice. 

"  Still  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  per- 
sistently avoid  the  Grange." 

"  What  would  you  say  if  I  followed  my  own 
hnpulse,  and  came  here  every  day?" 

"  I  would  say.  Good-morning,  Sir.  Still,  now 
that  you  are  here,  you  must  stay." 

"  I  will  stay,  whether  I  must  or  not." 

"Have  you  recovered  from  the  effect  of  my 
prayer-book  yet?" 

"  No,  nor  ever  will  I.  You  brought  the  same 
one  last  Sunday." 

"That  was  in  order  to  weaken  the  effect. 
Familiarity  breeds  contempt,  you  know." 

"Then  all  I  can  say  is,  that  contempt  has 
very  extraordinary  manifestations.  Among  oth- 
er strange  things,  it  makes  me  cover  my  paper 
with  that  pattern  when  I  ought  to  be  writing  on 
the  Mosaic  Economy." 

"Cosmogony,  you  mean." 

"Well,  then.  Cosmogony." 

"Cosmogony  is  such  a  delicious  word!  It 
has  been  the  hope  of  my  life  to  be  able  to  intro- 
duce it  in  a  conversation.  There  is  only  one 
other  word  that  compares  with  it." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  I  am  afraid  to  pronounce  it." 

"Try,  at  any  rate." 

"Idiosyncrasy,"  said  Mrs.  Tliomton.  For 
five  or  six  years  I  have  been  on  the  look-out  for 
an  opportunity  to  use  that  word,  and  thus  far  I 
have  been  unsuccessful.  I  fear  that  if  the  op- 
portunity did  occur  I  would  call  it  '  idiocracy.' 
In  fact,  I  know  I  woiUd." 

"And  what  would  be  the  dift'erence?  Your 
motive  would  be  right,  and  it  is  to  motives  that 
we  must  look,  not  acts."  . 

After  some  further  badinage,  Mrs.  Thornton 
drew  a  letter  from  her  pocket. 

"  Here,"  said  she,  gravely,  "is  Paolo's  letter. 
Read  it,  and  tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

Despard  took  the  letter  and  began  to  read, 
while  Mrs.  Thornton,  sitting  opposite  to  him, 
watched  his  face. 

The  letter  was  in  Italian,  and  was  accompa- 
nied by  a  large  and  closely-written  manuscript 
of  many  pages. 

"Halifax,  Nova  Sootia,  January  2, 1S4T. 

' '  My  Sweetest  Little  Sister, — I  send  you 
my  diary,  as  I  promised  you,  my  Teresella,  and 
you  will  see  all  my  adventures.  Take  care  of 
yourself,  be  happy,  and  let  us  hope  that  we  may 
see  one  another  soon.  I  am  well,  through  the 
mercy  of  the  good  God,  and  hope  to  continue  so. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  music  in  this  place, 
but  I  have  found  an  organ  where  I  can  play. 
My  Cremona  is  uninjured,  though  it  has  passed 
through  hard  times — it  sends  a  note  of  love  to 
my  Teresina.  Remember  your  Paolo  to  the  just 
and  upright  Thornton,  whom  you  love.  May 
God  bless  mr  little  sister's  husband,  and  fill  his 
heart  with  love  for  the  sweetest  of  children ! 

' '  Read  this  manuscript  carefully,  Teresuola 
mia  dolcissima,  and  pray  for  the  souls  of  those 
unhappy  ones  who  perished  by  the  pestilence." 


CORD  AND  CKEESE. 


G5 


CHAPTER  XV.     • 

JOCBMAL  OV   PAOLO  LANGHETTI. 

Liverpool,  June  2,  184(i. — I  promised  you, 
my  Teresina,  to  keep  a  diary  of  all  my  wander- 
ings, and  now  I  begin,  not  knowing  whetlier  it 
will  be  worth  reading  or  not,  but  knowing  this : 
that  my  corellina  will  read  it  all  with  equal  in- 
terest, whether  it  be  trivial  or  important. 

I  have  taken  passage  in  the  ship  Tecumseh 
from  Liverpool  to  Quebec.  I  have  embarked  in 
her  for  no  better  reason  than  this,  that  she  is  the 
first  that  will  sail,  and  I  am  impatient.  The  iirst 
New  York  siiip  does  not  leave  for  a  fortnight. 
A  fortnight  in  Liverpool !     Horror ! 

I  have  been  on  board  to  secure  my  room.  I 
am  told  tiiat  there  is  a  large  number  of  emigrants. 
It  is  a  pity,  but  it  can  not  be  helped.  All  ships 
have  emigrants  now.  Ireland  is  being  evacuated. 
There  will  soon  be  no  peasants  to  till  the  soil. 
What  enormous  misery  must  be  in  that  most 
wretched  of  countries!  Is  Italy  worse?  Yes, 
far  worse ;  for  Italy  has  a  past  to  contrast  with 
the  present,  w  hereas  Ireland  has  no  past. 

At  Sea,  June  4. — We  are  many  miles  out  in 
the  Irish  Channel.  There  are  six  hundred  emi- 
grants on  board — men,  women,  and  children.  I 
am  told  that  most  of  these  are  from  Ireland,  un- 
happy Ireland!  Some  are  from  England,  and 
are  going  to  seek  their  fortune  in  America.  As 
I  look  on  them  I  think,  My  God !  what  misery 
there  is  in  this  world !  And  yet  what  can  I  do 
to  alleviate  it  ?  I  am  helpless.  Let  the  world 
suffer.     All  will  be  right  hereafter. 

June  10.  — Six  hundred  passengers !  They  are 
all  crowded  together  in  a  manner  that  is  frightful 
to  me.  Comfort  is  out  of  the  ques.ion ;  the  direst 
distress  is  every  where  present ;  the  poor  w  retches 
only  try  to  escape  suffering.  During  storms  they 
are  shut  in;  there  is  little  vendlation;  and  the 
horror  that  reigns  in  that  hold  will  not  let  me 
either  eat  or  sleep.  I  have  remonstrated  with 
the  captain,  but  without  effect.  He  told  me  that 
he  could  do  nothing.  The  owners  of  the  ship 
put  them  on  board,  and  he  was  employed  to  i  li.e 
them  to  their  proper  destination.  My  God  I 
what  will  become  of  them  ? 

June  15. — There  have  been  a  few  days  of  fine 
weather.  The  w  retched  emigrants  ha\  e  all  been 
on  deck.  Among  them  I  noticed  three  who, 
from  their  appearance,  belonged  to  a  different 
class.  There  was  a  lady  with  a  young  man  and 
a  young  girl,  who  were  evidently  her  children. 
The  lady  has  once  been  beautiful,  and  still  bears 
the  traces  of  that  beauty,  though  her  face  indi- 
cates the  extreme  of  sadness.  The  son  is  a  man 
of  magnificent  appearance,  though  as  yet  not 
full-grown.  The  daughter  is  r  lOre  lovely  than 
any  being  whom  I  have  ever  see  i.  She  is  differ- 
ent from  my  Bicetta.  Bice  is  Grecian,  with  a  face 
like  that  of  a  marble  statue,  and  a  soul  of  purely 
classic  mould.  Bice  is  serene.  She  reminds  me 
of  Artemis.  Bice  is  an  artist  to  her  inmost 
heart.  Bice  I  love  as  I  love  you,  my  Teresina, 
and  I  never  expect  to  meet  with  one  who  can  so 
intei-jiret  my  ideas  wpth  so  divine  a  voice.  But 
this  girl  is  more  spiritual.  Bice  is  classic,  this 
one  is  medieval.  Bice  is  a  goddess,  this  one  a 
saint.  Bice  is  Artemis,  or  one  of  the  Muses; 
this  one  is  Holy  Agnes  or  Saint  Cecilia.  There 
is  in  that  sweet  and  holy  fat  e  the  same  depth  of 
devotion  which  our  painteit  portray  oii  the  face 


of  the  Madonna.  This  little  family  group  stand 
amidst  all  the  other  passengers,  separated  by  the 
wide  gulf  of  superior  rank,  for  they  are  mani- 
festly fiom  among  the  up])er  classes,  but  still 
more  so  by  the  solemn  isolation  of  grief  It  is 
touching  to  see  the  love  of  the  mother  for  her 
children,  and  the  love  of  the  children  for  their 
mother.  How  can  I  satisfy  the  longings  which 
I  feel  to  express  to  them  njy  sympathy  ? 

June  21. — I  have  at  length  gained  my  desire. 
I  have  become  acquainted  with  that  little  group. 
I  went  up  to  them  this  morning  in  obedience  to 
a  resistless  impulse,  and  with  the  most  tender 
sympathy  that  I  could  express ;  and,  with  many 
apologies,  offered  the  young  man  a  bottle  of  wine 
for  his  mother.  He  took  it  gratefully  and  frank- 
ly. He  met  me  half-way  in  my  advances'.  I'he 
poor  lady  looked  at  me  with  speechless  gratitude, 
as  though  kindness  and  sympathy  were  unknown 
to  her.  "God  will  reward  you.  Sir,"  she  said, 
in  a  tremulous  voice,  "for  yoiur  sj-mpathy  with 
the  miserable." 

"Dear  Madame,"  said  I,  "I  wish  no  other 
reward  than  the  consciousness  that  I  may  have 
alleviated  your  distress." 

My  heart  bled  for  these  poor  creatures.  Cast 
down  from  a  life  which  must  have  once  been  one 
of  luxury,  they  were  now  in  the  foiUest  of  places, 
the  hold  of  an  emigrant  ship.  I  went  back  to 
the  captain  to  see  if  I  could  not  do  something  in 
their  behalf.  I  wished  to  give  up  my  room  to 
them.  He  said  I  could  do  so  if  I  wished,  but 
that  llieie  was  no  room  left  in  the  cabin.  Had 
there  been  I  would  have  hired  one  and  insisted 
on  their  going  there. 

I  went  to  see  the  lady,  and  made  this  projxjsal 
as  delica  ely  as  I  could.  There  were  two  berths 
in  my  room.  I  urged  her  and  her  daughter  to 
take  them.  At  first  they  both  refused  most  posi- 
tively, with  tears  of  gratitude.  But  I  would  not 
be  so  put  off".  To  the  mother  I  portrayed  the 
situation  of  the  daughter  in  that  den  of  horror ; 
to  the  daughter  I  pointed  out  the  condition  of  the 
mother ;  to  the  son  I  showed  the  position  of  his 
mother  and  sister,  and  thus  I  worked  upon  the 
holiest  feelings  of  their  hearts.  For  myself  I  as- 
sured them  that  I  could  get  a  place  among  the 
sailors  in  the  forecastle,  and  that  I  preferred 
doing  so.  By  such  means  as  these  I  moved  them 
to  consent.  They  did  so  w  ith  an  expression  of 
thankfulness  that  brought  tears  to  my  eyes. 

"Dear  Madame,"  said  I,  "you  will  break  my 
heart  if  you  talk  so.  Take  the  room  and  say  no- 
thing. I  have  been  a  wanderer  for  years,  and 
can  live  any  where." 

It  was  not  till  then  that  I  found  out  their  names. 
I  told  them  mine.  They  looked  at  one  another 
in  astonishment.     ' '  Langhetti  ?"  said  the  mother, 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  ever  live  in  Holby?" 

"Yes.  My  father  was  organist  in  Trinity 
Church,  and  I  and  my  sister  lived  there  some 
years.     She  lives  there  still." 

"  My  God !"  was  her  ejaculation. 

"Why?"  I  asked,  with  eager  cuiiosity. 
"What  do  you  know  about  Holby,  and  about 
Langhetti  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  solemn  earnestness. 
"I,"  said  she.  "am  the  wife,  and  these  are  the 
children  of  one  who  was  your  father's  friend.  He 
who  was  my  husband,  and  the  father  of  these 
children,  was  Italph  Brandon,  of  Brandon  Hall." 


,  r 


COKD  AND  CREESE. 


I  stood  for  a  moment  stupefied.  Then  I  baret 
into  tean.  llien  I  embraced  them  all,  and  said 
I  know  not  what  of  pity  and  sympathy  and  affec- 
tion. My  God  !  to  thnik  of  such  a  fate  as  this 
awaiting  the  family  of  Kalph  Brandon.  Did  you 
know  this,  oh,  Teresina?  If  so,  why  did  you 
keep  it  secret?  But  no — you  co^ild  not  have 
known  it.  If  you  had  this  would  not  have  hap- 
pened. 

I'hey  took  my  room  in  the  cubin — the  dear 
ones — Mrs.  Brandon  and  the  swoet  Edith.  The 
son  Frank  and  I  stay  together  among  the  emi- 
grants. Here  I  am  now,  and  I  write  this  as  the 
sun  is  getting  low,  and  the  uproar  of  tdl  these 
hundreds  is  sounding  in  my  ears. 

Tune  30. — There  is  a  panic  in  the  ship.  The 
dread  pestilence  known  as  "ship-fever"  has  ap- 
peared. This  disease  is  the  terror  of  emigrant 
ships.  Srrely  there  was  never  any  vessel  so 
well  adapted  to  be  the  prey  of  tho  pestilence  as 
this  of  ours!  I  have  lived  for  ten  days  among 
.the  steerage  passengers,  and  have  witnessed  their 
misery.  Is  God  just?  Can  he  look  down  un- 
moved upon  scenes  like  these?  Now  that  the 
<Jisease  has  come,  where  will  it  stop  ? 

Juhj  3. — The  disease  is  spreading.  Fifteen  are 
prostrate.     Three  have  died. 

Juli)  10. — Thiity  deaths  have  occurred,  and 
fifty  are  sick.     I  am  assisting  to  nurse  them. 

Jidy  15. — Thirty-four  deaths  since  my  last. 
One  hundred  and  thirty  are  sick.  I  will  labor 
here  if  I  have  to  die  for  it. 

Jul}f  18. — If  this  is  my  last  entry  let  this 
diary  be  sent  to  Mrs.  Thornton,  care  of  Will- 
iam Thornton,  Holby,  Pembroke,  England — 
(the  above  entry  was  written  in  English,  the  re- 
mainder was  ail  in  Italian,  as  before).  More 
than  two  hundred  are  sick.  Frank  Brandon  is 
down.  I  am  afraid  to  let  his  mother  know  it. 
I  am  working  night  and  day.  In  three  days 
there  have  been  forty-seven  deaths.  The  crew 
are  demoralized  and  panic-stricken. 

July  23. — Shall  I  sunive  these  horrors  ?  More 
than  fifty  new  deaths  have  occurred.  The  dis- 
ease has  spread  among  the  sailors.  Two  are 
dead,  and  seven  are  sick.  Horror  prevails. 
Frank  Brandon  is  recovering  slowly.  Mrs. 
Brandon  does  not  know  that  he  has  been  sick. 
We  send  word  that  we  are  afraid  to  come  for 
fear  of  conmiunicating  the  disease  to  her  and  to 
Edith. 

July  27. — More  than  half  of  the  sailors  are 
sick.  Eleven  dead.  Sixty-seven  passengers 
dead  since  last  report.  Frank  Brandon  almost 
well,  and  helping  me  in  my  work. 

July  30. — Nearly  all  the  sailors  more  or  less 
sick — five  new  deaths  among  them,  hhip  almost 
unmanageable.  In  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence. 
Talk  of  putting  into  some  port.  Seventy  passen- 
gers dead. 

Auffu.it  2. — Worse  yet.  Disease  has  spread 
into  the  cabin.  Three  cabin  passengers  dead. 
God  have  mercy  upon  poor  Mrs.  Brandon  and 
sweet  Edith !  ^\11  the  steerage  passengers,  with 
a  few  exceptions,  prostrate.  Frank  Brandon  is 
weak  but  helps  me.  I  work  night  and  day.  The 
ship  is  like  a  floating  pest-house.  Forty  new 
deaths  since  last  report. 

August  7. — Drifting  along,  I  know  not  how,  up 
the  St.  LawTence.  The  weather  calm,  and  two  or 
three  sailors  able  to  manage  the  ship.  Captain 
and  mate  both   dead.     Ten   cabin   passengers 


dead.  Three  more  sailors  dead.  Only  thirty- 
two  steerage  passengers  dead  since  last  report, 
but  nearly  all  are  sick.  Hardly  any  one  to  at- 
tend to  them. 

AuguKt  10. — Mrs.  Brandon  and  Edith  both 
sick.  Frank  prostrate  again.  God  in  heaven, 
have  mercy ! 

Auyust  15. — Mrs,  Brandon  and  Edith  rery 
low.     Frank  better. 

Auyuat  16. — Quarantine  Station,  Gosse  Isl- 
and. I  feel  the  fever  in  my  veins.  If  I  die, 
farewell,  sweetest  sister. 

December  28,  Unlifax,  Nova  Scotia. — More 
than  four  months  have  elapsed  since  my  last  en- 
try, and  during  the  interval  mar\elou8  things 
have  occurred.  These  I  will  now  try  to  recall  as 
I  best  can. 

My  last  entry  was  made  on  the  day  of  tho  ar- 
rival of  the  Tecumseh  at  the  Quarantine  Station, 
Gosse  Island,  Quebec.  We  were  delayed  there 
for  two  days.  iLvery  thing  was  in  confusion.  A 
large  number  of  ships  had  arrived,  and  all  were 
filled  with  sick.  The  authorities  were  taken  by 
surprise ;  and  aa  no  arrangements  had  ever  been 
made  for  such  a  state  of  things  the  suft'ering  was 
extreme.  The  arrival  of  the  Tecumseh  w  ith  her 
frightful  record  of  deaths,  and  with  several  hun- 
dred sick  still  on  board,  completed  the  confusion. 
At  last  the  passengers  were  removed  somehow, 
I  know  not  how  or  when,  for  I  myself  on  the 
evening  of  our  arrival  was  struck  down  by  the 
fever.  I  suppose  that  Frank  Brandon  may  have 
nursed  me  at  first ;  but  of  that  I  am  not  sure. 
There  was  fearful  disorder.  There  were  few 
nurses  and  fewer  doctors;  and  as  fast  as  the 
sick  died  they  were  hurried  hastily  into  shallow 
graves  in  the  sand.  I  was  sick  for  two  or  three 
weeks,  and  knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  on. 
The  first  thing  that  I  saw  on  coming  to  my  senses 
was  Edith  Brandon. 

She  was  fearfully  changed.  Unutterable  grief 
dwelt  upon  her  sweet  young  face,  which  also  was 
pale  and  wan  from  the  sickness  through  which 
she  had  passed.  An  awful  feeling  shot  through 
me.  My  first  question  was,  "Is  your  mother 
on  shore  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  in  solemn  si- 
lence, and,  slowly  raising  her  hand,  pointed  up- 
ward. 

"  Your  brother?"  I  gasped. 

She  turned  her  head  away.  I  was  silent. 
They  were  dead,  then.  O  God !  and  this  child 
— what  had  she  not  been  suffering  ?  My  mind 
at  once,  in  its  agony  of  sympathy  with  her,  burst 
through  the  clouds  which  sickness  had  thrown 
around  it.  "Poor  child!"  I  said.  "And  why 
are  you  here  ?" 

"  Where  else  can  I  go  ?"  she  answered,  mourn- 
fully. 

"At  least,  you  should  not  wear  yourself  out 
by  my  bedside." 

"You  are  the  only  one  left  whom  I  know.  I 
owe  you  far  more  than  the  small  attendance 
which  I  have  given  you." 

"But  will  you  not  take  some  rest ?" 

"Hush!  Wait  till  you  are  stronger.  You 
are  too  weak  now  to  think  of  these  things. " 

She  laid  her  thin  hand  on  my  forehead  trently. 
I  turned  my  head  away,  and  burst  into  a  flood 
of  tears.  Why  was  it  that  this  child  was  called 
upon  to  endure  such  agony?  Why,  in  the  midst 
of  that  agony,  did  she  come  to  me  to  save  my  life  ? 


CORD  AND  CHEESE, 


67 


I  did  not  resist  her  any  longer  on  that  day ; 
but  the  next  day  I  was  stronger,  and  nutde  her 
go  and  repose  herself. 

For  two  successive  days  she  came  back.  On 
the  third  day  she  did  not  appear.  The  fourth 
day  also  she  was  absent.  Rude  nurses  attended 
to  me.  They  knew  nothing  of  her.  My  anxietv 
inspired  me  with  such  energy  that  on  the  fourtK 
day  I  rose  from  my  bed  and  staggered  about  to 
lind  her  if  possible. 

All  was  still  confusion.  Thousands  of  sick 
were  on  the  island.  The  mistake  of  the  first 
week  had  not  yet  been  repaired.  No  one  knew 
any  thing  of  Edith.  I  sought  her  through  all  the 
wards.  I  went  to  the  superintendent,  and  forced 
him  to  make  inquiries  about  her.  No  one  could 
tell  any  thing. 

My  despair  was  terrible.  I  forced  the  super- 
intendent to  call  up  all  the  nurses  and  doctors, 
and  question  them  all,  one  by  one.  At  last  an 
old  Irish  woman,  with  an  awfid  look  at  me,  hint- 
ed that  she  coidd  tell  something  about  her,  and 
whispered  a  word  or  two  in  the  superintendent's 
ear.     He  started  back,  with  a  fearful  glance. 

"  What  is  it  ?     TeU,  in  God's  name !" 

"  The  dead-house,"  he  murmured. 

"Where  is  it?  Take  me  there!"  I  cried  to 
the  woman.  I  clutched  her  arm  and  staggered 
after  her. 

It  was  a  long,  low  shed,  open  on  all  sides. 
Twelve  bodies  lay  there.  In  the  middle  of  the 
row  was  Edifh.  She  was  more  beautiful  than 
an  angel.  A  smile  wreathed  her  lips ;  her  eyes 
looked  as  though  she  slumbered.  I  rushed  up  to 
her  and  caught  her  in  my  arms.  The  next  mo- 
ment I  fell  senseless. 

When  I  revived  I  was  lying  in  one  of  the  sick- 
sheds,  with  a  crowd  of  sufferers  around  me.  I 
had  only  one  thought,  and  that  was  Edith.  I 
rose  at  once,  weak  and  trembling,  but  the  resolve 
of  my  soul  gave  strength  to  my  body.  An  awful 
fear  had  taken  possession  of  me,  which  was  ac- 
companied by  a  certain  wild  hope.  I  huiTied, 
with  staggering  feet,  to  the  dead-house. 

All  the  bodies  were  gone.  New  ones  had  come 
in. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  I  cried  to  the  old  woman  who 
had  charge  there.    She  knew  to  whom  I  referred. 

"Buried,"  said  she. 

I  burst  out  into  a  torrent  of  imprecations. 
"  Where  have  they  buried  her  ?  Take  me  to  the 
place  I"  I  cried,  as  I  flung  a  piece  of  gold  to  the 
woman.  She  grasped  it  eagerly.  "  Bring  a  spade, 
and  come  quick,  for  God's  sake!    Sheis  not  dead!" 

How  did  I  have  s'uch  a  mad  fancy  ?  I  will  tell 
you.  This  ship-fever  often  terminates  in  a  sort 
of  stupor,  in  which  death  generally  takes  place. 
Sometimes,  however,  the  patient  who  has  fallen 
into  this  stupor  revives  again.  It  is  known  to 
the  physicians  as  the  "  trance  state."  I  had  seen 
cases  of  this  at  sea.  Several  times  people  were 
thrown  overboard  when  I  thought  that  they  did 
not  have  all  the  signs  of  death,  and  at  last,  in 
two  cases  of  which  I  had  charge,  I  detained  the 
corpses  three  days,  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances 
of  the  other  passengers.  These  two  revived.  By 
this  I  knew  that  some  of  those  who  were  thrown 
overboard  were  not  dead.  Did  I  feel  horror  at 
this,  my  Teresa?  No.  "Pass  away,"  I  said, 
"unhappy  ones.  You  are  not  dead.  You  live 
in  a  better  life  than  this.  "What  matters  it  wheth- 
*■  you  died  by  the  fever  or  by  the  sea  ?" 


But  when  I  aaw^  Edith  as  she  lay  there  my  sou] 
felt  assured  that  she  was  not  dead,  and  an  imut' 
terable  convulsion  of  sorrow  overwhelmed  me. 
Therefore  I  fainted.  The  horror  of  that  situa- 
tion was  too  much  for  me.  To  think  of  that  an- 
gelic girl  about  to  be  covered  up  alive  in  the 
ground ;  to  think  of  that  sweet  young  life,  which 
had  begun  so  brightly,  terminating  amidst  such 
black  darkness ! 

"  Now  God  help  me !"  I  cried,  as  I  hurried  on 
after  the  woman ;  "  and  bring  me  there  in  time." 
There !  Where  ?  To  the  place  of  the  dead.  It 
was  there  that  I  had  to  seek  her. 

"  How  long  had  she  been  in  that  house  before 
I  fainted?  '  I  asked,  fearfully. 

"  Twenty-four  hour.?." 

"And  when  did  I  faint?" 

"Yesterday." 

A  pang  shot  through  me.  "  Tell  me,"  I  cried, 
hoarsely,  "when  she  was  buried." 

"Lait  night." 

"O  God!"  I  groaned,  and  I  could  say  no 
more ;  but  with  new  strength  given  to  me  in  that 
hour  of  agony  I  rushed  on. 

It  was  by  the  eastern  shore  of  the  island.  A 
wide  flat  was  there,  washed  on  one  side  by  the 
river.  Here  more  than  a  thousand  mounds 
arose.     Alas !  could  I  ever  hope  to  find  her ! 

"Do  you  know  where  they  have  laid  her?"  I 
asked,  tremblingly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  confidently. 

Hope  returned  faintly.     She  led  the  way. 

The  moon  beamed  out  brightly  from  behind  a 
cloud,  illumining  the  waste  of  mounds.  The 
river  murmured  solemnly  along  the  shore.  All 
my  senses  were  overwhelmed  in  the  madness  of 
that  hour.  I'he  moon  seemed  enlarged  to  the 
dimensions  of  a  sky ;  the  murmur  of  the  river 
sounded  like  a  cataract,  and  in  the  vast  murmur 
1  heard  voices  which  seemed  then  like  the  voices 
of  the  dead.  But  the  lustre  of  that  exaggerated 
glow,  and  the  booming  concord  of  fancied  spirit- 
voices  were  all  contemned  as  trifles.  I  cared  for 
nothing  either  natural  or  supernatural.  Only  one 
thought  was  present — the  place  where  she  was 
laid. 

We  reached  it  at  last.  At  the  end  of  a  row 
of  graves  we  stopped.  "  Here,"  said  the  woman, 
' '  are  twelve  graves.  These  were  made  last  night. 
These  are  those  twelve  which  you  saw." 

"And  where — where,  O  God,  is  she!" 

"There,"  replied  the  woman,  pointing  to  one 
which  was  the  third  from  the  end. 

"Do  not  deceive  me!"  I  cried,  imploringly. 
"  Are  you  sure?  For  I  will  tear  up  all  these  till 
I  find  her." 

"  I  am  sure,  for  I  was  the  one  who  buried  her. 
I  and  a  man — " 

I  seized  the  spade  and  turned  up  the  soil.  I 
labored  incessantly  for  what  seemed  an  endless 
period.  I  had  thrown  out  much  earth  but  had 
not  yet  reached  her.  I  felt  n  ;•  fitful  strength 
failing  me.  My  mind,  too,  seemed  entering  into 
a  state  of  delirium.  At  last  my  knees  gave  way, 
and  I  sank  down  just  as  my  spade  touched  some- 
thing which  gave  back  a  hollow  sound. 

My  knees  gave  way,  and  I  sank  down.  But  I 
would  not  give  up.  I  tore  up  handfuls  of  earth 
and  threw  th>,m  into  the  air. 

"Oh,  Edith!"  I  cried,  "I  am  here!  I  am  com- 
ing !  I  am  coming !" 

"Come,  Sir,"  said  the  woman,  suddenly,  la 


68 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


I  TOOK  Hr.U  IN  :^  T  arms  and  BKOCGHT  her  forth  from  the  OlAVE,   ETC. 


her  strong  voice,  yet  pityingly.  "  Yon  can  do  no- 
thing.    I  will  dig  her  out  in  a  niinn'e." 

"God  forever  bless  you!"  I  cried,  leaping  out 
nnd  ginng  place  to  her.  I  watched  her  ns  she 
threw  out  the  earth.  Hungrily  I  gazed,  devour- 
ing that  dirk  aperture  with  my  eyes  till  at  last  the 
rough  boards  appeared. 

Then  I  leaped  down.  I  put  my  fingers  at  the 
edge  rind  tore  at  it  till  it  gave  way.  The  lid  was 
only  fastened  with  a  few  nails.  My  bleeding 
fingtrs  clutched  it.  It  yielded  to  my  frantic  ex- 
ertions. 

O  my  God  I  was  there  ever  a  sight  on  earth 
like  that  *hich  now  met  my  eyes  as  I  raised  the 
lid  and  looked  below  ?  The  moon,  which  was 
high  in  the  sky,  streamed  down  directly  into  the 
narrow  cell.  It  showed  me  the  one  whom  I 
sought.  Its  bright  beams  threw  a  lustre  round 
that  face  which  was  upturned  toward  me.  Ah 
me !  how  white  was  that  face ;  like  the  face  of 
soma  sleeping  maiden  can  ed  in  alabaster.  Bathed 
in  the  moonbeams  it  lay  before  me,  all  softened 
and  rteftned  and  made  pure ;  a  face  of  unearthly 
beauty.  The  dark  hair  caught  the  moon's  rays, 
and  encircled  the  head  like  a  crown  of  immortal- 
ity. Still  the  eyes  were  closed  as  though  in 
slumber ;  still  the  lips  were  fixed  into  a  smile. 


She  lay  as  one  who  had  fiillen  into  a  deep,  sweet 
sleep — ns  one  who  in  that  sleep  has  dreams,  in 
which  are  visions  of  more  than  earthly  beauty, 
and  scenes  of  more  than  mortal  happiness. 

Now  it  was  with  me  as  though  at  that  un- 
equaled  vision  I  had  drawn  into  my  inmost  being 
some  sudden  stimulus — a  certain  rapture  of  new- 
born strength ;  strength  no  longer  fitful  and  spas- 
modic, but  firm,  well  fortified  and  well  sustained. 

I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  brought  her  forth 
from  the  grave  into  the  life  of  earth. 

Ah  me!  how  light  a  thing  was  that  frail  and 
slender  figure  which  had  been  worn  down  by  the 
unparalleled  suftaring  through  which  she  had 
passed.  This  thought  transfixed  me  with  a  pang 
of  anguish — even  av-ed  the  rapture  that  I  felt  at 
clasping  her  in  my  aims. 

But  now  that  I  had  her,  where  was  I  to  seek 
for  a  place  of  shelter?  I  turned  to  the  woman 
and  asked :  "Is  there  a.ny  secluded  place  where 
she  may  sleep  undisturbed  till  she  wakes — " 

"  No :  there  is  none  but  what  is  crowded  with 
the  sick  and  dying  in  all  thi^^  island." 

"  I  must  have  some  place. ' 

"  There  is  only  one  spot  that  is  quiet." 

"What  one?" 

"The  dead-house." 


CORD  AND  CREE8E. 


69 


I  vbuddered.  "  No,  not  there.  Bee,"  said  I, 
and  I  handed  her  a  piece  of  gold.  "Find  me 
wnie  place  and  you  shall  have  ntill  more. " 

"Well,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "I  have  the 
room  where  me  end  my  man  live.  I  suppose  we 
could  give  up  that." 

"Take  me  there,  then." 

"Shall  I  help  you  carry  her ?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  drawing  hack  my  pure 
Edith  from  her  outstretched  hands.  "No,  I 
will  carry  her." 

The  woman  went  on  without  a  word.  She  led 
the  way  back  to  the  low  and  dismal  sheds  which 
lay  there  like  a  vast  charnel-house,  and  thence  to 
a  low  hut  some  distance  away  from  all,  where 
•he  opened  a  door.  8he  spoke  a  few  words  to  a 
man,  who  finally  withdrew.  A  light  was  burning. 
A  rude  cot  was  there.  Here  I  laid  the  one  whom 
I  carried. 

"Come  here,"  said  I,  "three  times  a  day.  I 
will  pay  you  Avell  for  this." 

The  woman  left.  All  night  long  I  watched. 
She  lay  unmoved  and  unchanged.  Where  was 
her  spirit  wandering  ?  Soared  it  among  the  splen- 
dors of  some  far-off  world  ?  Lingered  it  amidst 
the  sunsiLine  of  heavenly  glory  ?  Did  her  seraphic 
soul  move  amidst  her  peers  in  the  assemblage  of 
the  holy  ?  Was  she  straying  amidst  the  track- 
less paths  of  ether  with  those  whom  she  had 
loved  in  life,  and  who  had  gone  before  ? 

All  night  long  I  watchetl  her  as  she  lay  with 
her  marble  face  and  her  changeless  smile.  There 
seemed  to  be  communicated  to  me  an  influence 
from  her  which  opened  the  eyes  of  my  spiritual 
sense ;  and  my  spirit  sought  to  force  itself  upon 
her  far-off  perceptions,  that  so  it  might  catch  her 
notice  and  bring  her  back  to  earth. 

The  morning  dawned.  There  was  no  change. 
Mid-day  came,  and  still  there  was  no  change.  I 
know  not  how  it  was,  but  the  superintendent  had 
heard  about  the  grave  being  opened,  and  found 
me  in  the  hut.  He  tried  to  induce  me  to  give 
back  to  the  grave  the  one  whom  I  had  rescued. 
The  horror  of  that  request  was  so  tremendous 
that  it  forced  me  into  passionless  calm.  When 
I  refused  he  threatened.  At  his  menace  I  re- 
joined in  such  language  that  he  turned  pale. 

"  Murderer !"  said  I,  sternly,  "  is  it  not  enough 
that  you  have  sent  to  the  grave  many  wretches 
who  were  not  dead  ?  Do  you  seek  to  send  back 
to  death  this  single  one  whom  I  have  rescued  ? 
Do  you  want  all  Canada  and  all  the  world  to  ring 
with  the  account  of  the  horrors  done  here,  where 
people  are  buried  alive  ?  See,  she  is  not  dead. 
She  is  only  sleeping.  And  yet  you  put  her  in 
the  grave. 

"  She  is  dead !"  he  cried,  in  mlnglefl  fear  and 
anger — "  and  she  must  be  buried." 

"  She  is  not  dead,"  said  I,  sternly,  as  I  glared 
on  him  oat  of  my  intensity  of  anguish — "  she  is 
not  dead ;  and  if  you  try  to  send  her  to  death 
again  you  must  first  send  me.  She  shall  not  pass 
to  the  grave  except  over  my  corpse,  and  over  the 
corpse  of  the  first  murderer  that  dares  to  lay 
hands  on  her." 

He  started  back — he  and  those  who  were  with 
him.     "  The  man  is  mad,"  they  said. 

They  left  me  in  peace.  I  grow  excited  as  I 
write.     My  hand  trembles.     Let  me  be  calm. 

She  awoke  that  night.  It  was  midnight,  and 
all  was  still.  She  opened  her  eyes  suddenly,  and 
looked  full  at  me  with  an  earnest  and  steadfast 


stare.  At  last  a  long,  deep-dranm  sigh  broke  the 
stillness  of  that  lone  chamber. 

"Back  again" — she  murmured,  in  a  scarce 
audible  voice — "among  men,  and  to  earth.  O 
friends  of  the  Realm  of  Light,  miut  I  be  severed 
fW)m  your  lofty  communion  I" 

As  she  spoke  thus  the  angi  <h  which  I  had 
felt  at  the  grave  wan  renewed.  "  You  have 
brought  me  back,"  said  she,  mournfully. 

"  No,"  I  returned,  sodl" — "  not  I.  It  was  not 
God's  will  that  you  shouM  leave  this  life.  He 
did  not  send  death  to  vou.  You  were  sleeping, 
and  I  brought  you  to  tFiis  ;jlace." 

"  I  know  all,"  she  murmured,  closing  her  eyes. 
"  I  heard  all  while  my  spirit  was  away.  1  know 
where  you  fotmd  me." 

"  I  am  weary,"  she  said,  after  a  silence.  Her 
eyes  closed  again.  But  this  time  the  trance  waa 
broken.  She  slept  with  long,  deep  breathing, 
interrupted  by  frequent  sighs.  I  watched  her 
through  the  long  night.  At  first  fever  came. 
Then  it  passed.  Her  sleep  became  calm,  and 
she  slumbered  like  a  weary  child. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  superintendent  came, 
followed  by  a  dozen  armed  men.  He  entered 
with  a  frown.  I  met  him  with  my  hand  upraised 
to  hush  him,  and  led  him  gently  to  the  bedside. 

">ee,"  1  whispered — "but  for  me  she  would 
have  been  buried  alive  !" 

The  man  seemed  frozen  into  dumbness.  He 
stood  ghastly  white  with  horror,  thick  drops  start- 
ed from  his  forehead,  his  teeth  chattered,  he  stag- 
gered away.  He  looked  it  me  with  a  haunted 
face,  such  as  belongs  to  one  who  thinks  he  haa 
seen  a  spirit. 

"Spare  me,"  he  faltered;  "do  not  ruin  me. 
God  knows  I  have  tried  to  do  my  best !" 

I  waved  him  oft'.  "Leave  me.  You  have  no- 
thing to  fear."  He  turned  away  with  his  white 
face,  and  departed  in  silence  with  his  men. 

After  a  long  sleep  Edith  waked  again.  She 
said  nothing.  I  did  not  wish  her  to  speak.  She 
lay  awake,  yet  \\i.h  closed  eyes,  thinking  such 
thoughts  as  belong  to  one,  and  to  one  alone,  who 
had  known  what  she  had  kno^\'n. 

I  did  not  speak  to  her,  for  she  was  to  me  a 
holy  being,  not  to  be  addressed  lightly.  Y'et  she 
did  not  refuse  nourishment,  and  grew  stronger, 
until  at  last  I  was  able  to  have  her  moved  to 
Quebec.  There  I  obtained  proper  accommoda- 
tions for  her  and  good  nurses. 

I  have  told  you  what  she  was  before  this. 
Subsequently  there  came  a  change.  The  nurses 
and  the  doctors  called  it  a  stupor. 

There  was  something  in  her  face  which  in- 
spired awe  among  all  who  saw  her.  If  it  is  the 
soul  of  man  that  gives  expression  to  the  features, 
then  her  soul  must  have  been  familiar  with  things 
unknown  to  us.  How  often  have  I  seen  her  in 
walking  across  the  room  stop  suddenly  and  stand 
fixed  on  the  spot,  musing  and  sad!  She  com- 
monly moved  about  as  though  she  saw  nothing, 
as  though  she  walked  in  a  dream,  with  eyes 
half  closed,  and  sometimes  murmuring  inaudible 
words.  The  nurses  half  loved  and  half  feared 
her.  Yet  there  were  some  little  children  in  the 
house  who  felt  all  love  and  no  fear,  for  I  have 
seen  her  smiling  on^hem  with  a  smile  so  sweet 
that  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  they  stood  in  the  pres- 
ence of  their  guardian  angel.  Strange,  sad  spirit, 
what  thoughts,  what  memories  are  these  which 
make  her  life  one  long  reve.ie,  and  have  taken 


70 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


from  her  all  power  to  enjoy  the.  basutiful  that 
(IwellM  on  eartii ! 

She  Hll«  all  my  thoughts  with  her  lonelinem, 
her  leant,  and  her  Mpiritiial  fare,  l>etiriii({  the 
marki)  of  K'eiien  that  can  neve.  l)o  forgotten.  She 
liveM  and  moves  nmidHt  her  >  ecollections.  What 
ix  it  that  BO  ovenvhelmn  all  her  thoughts  ?  That 
face  of  here  appeani  tia  though  it  had  bathed  it- 
gelf  in  the  atmosphere  of  mme  diviner  world  than 
thiit;  and  her  eyes  serm  as  if  they  may  have 
gazed  upon  the  Infinitr  Myntery. 

Now  from  the  few  it-ords  which  she  baa  casual- 
ly dropped  I  gather  this  to  be  her  own  belief, 
'lliat  when  she  fell  into  the  state  of  trance  her 
soul  was  parted  from  her  body,  though  still  by  an 
inexplicable  sympiithy  she  was  aware  of  what  was 
itassing  around  her  lifeless  form.  Yet  her  soul 
had  gone  forth  into  that  spiritual  world  toward 
which  we  look  from  this  earth  with  such  eager 
wonder.  It  had  mingled  there  with  the  souls  of 
others.  It  had  put  forth  new  powers,  and  learned 
the  use  of  r.  w  faculties.  Than  that  soul  was 
called  back  to  its  body. 

This  raiu  len — this  wonder  among  mortals — is 
not  a  morr.d.  she  is  an  exiled  soul.  I  have  seen 
her  sit  wi'n  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  tears 
such  as  :nen  thed  in  exile.  For  she  is  like  a 
banished  man  who  has  only  one  feeling,  a  long- 
ing, yea.iiing  homesickness.  She  has  been  once 
in  that  radir.nt  world  for  a  time  which  we  call 
three  days  i.i  our  human  calculations,  but  which 
to  her  seems  indefinite ;  for  as  she  once  said — and 
it  is  a  pregnant  thought,  full  of  meaning — there 
is  no  time  there,  all  is  inhnite  duration.  The 
soul  b&f  illimitable  powers ;  in  an  instant  it  can 
live  years,  and  she  in  those  three  days  had  the 
life  of  ages.  Her  former  life  on  earth  has  now 
but  fi  faint  hold  upon  her  memorj'  in  comparison 
with  that  Ufe  among  the  stars.  The  sorrow  that 
hr.r  loved  ones  endured  has  become  eclipsed  by 
the  knowledge  of  the  blessedness  in  which  she 
found  thera. 

Alas !  it  is  a  blessing  to  die,  and  it  is  only  a 
cm%e  to  rise  from  the  dead.  And  now  she  en- 
dures this  exile  with  an  aching  heart,  with  memo- 
ries that  are  irrepressible,  wi.h  longings  imutter- 
able,  and  yearnings  that  can  not  be  expressed  for 
that  starry  world  and  that  bright  companionship 
from  which  she  has  been  recalled.  So  she  some- 
times speaks.  And  little  else  can  she  say  amidst 
her  tears.  Oh,  sublime  and  mysterious  exile, 
could  I  but  know  what  you  know,  and  have  but 
a  small  part  of  that  seer  t  which  you  can  not  ex- 
plain! 

For  she  can  not  tell  what  she  witnessed  there. 
She  sometimes  wishes  to  do  so,  but  can  not. 
When  asked  directly,  she  sinks  into  herself  and 
is  lost  in  thought.  She  finds  no  words.  It  is 
as  when  we  try  to  explain  to  a  man  who  has 
been  always  blind  the  scenes  before  our  eyes. 
We  can  not  explain  them  to  such  a  man.  And 
BO  with  her.  She  finds  in  her  memory  things 
*  which  no  human  language  has  been  made  to  ex- 
press. These  languages  were  made  for  the  earth, 
not  for  heaven.  In  order  to  tell  me  what  she 
knows,  she  would  need  the  language  of  that 
world,  and  then  she  could  not  explain  it,  for  I 
could  not  understand  it. 

Only  once  I  saw  her  smile,  and  that  was  when 
tne  of  the  nurses  casually  mentioned,  with  hor- 
ror, the  death  of  some  acquaintance.  ' '  Death !" 
•he  murmured,  and  her  eyes  lighted  np  with  a 


kind  of  ecstasy.  ' '  Oh,  that  I  might  die !"  She 
knows  no  blessing  on  earth  except  that  which 
we  consider  a  curse,  and  to  her  the  object  of  all 
her  wishes  is  this  one  thing — I>eath.  I  shall 
not  soon  forget  that  Hmile.  It  seemed  of  itself 
to  give  a  new  meaning  to  death. 

Do  1  believe  this,  so  wild  a  theory,  the  very 
mention  of  which  has  carried  me  beyond  myself? 
I  do  not  know.  All  my  reason  rebels.  It  Kcouts 
the  monstrous  idea.  But  here  she  stands  l>efore 
me,  with  her  memories  and  thoughts,  and  her 
wonderi'ul  words,  few,  but  full  of  deepest  meaning 
— words  which  I  shall  never  forget — and  I  rec- 
ognize something  before  which  Reason  falters. 
Whence  this  deep  longing  of  hers?  Why  when 
she  thinks  of  death  does  her  face  grow  thus  ra- 
diant, and  her  eyes  kindle  with  hope?  Why 
does  she  so  pine  and  grow  sick  with  desire? 
Why  does  her  heart  thus  ache  as  day  succeeds  to 
day,  and  she  finds  herself  still  under  the  sun- 
light, with  the  landscapes  and  the  music  of  this 
fair  earth  still  around  her  ? 

Once,  in  some  speculations  of  mine,  which  I 
think  I  mentioned  to  you,  Teresina,  I  thought 
that  if  a  man  could  reach  that  spiritual  world  he 
would  look  with  contempt  upon  the  highest 
charms  that  belong  to  this.  Here  is  one  who 
believes  that  she  has  gone  through  this  expe- 
rience, and  all  this  earth,  with  all  its  beauty,  is 
now  an  object  of  indifference  to  her.  Perhaps 
you  may  ask.  Is  she  sane  ?  Yes,  dear,  as  sane 
as  I  am,  but  with  a  profounder  experience  and  a 
diviner  knowledge. 

After  I  had  been  in  Quebec  about  a  month  I 
learned  that  one  of  the  regiments  stationed  here 
was  commanded  by  Colonel  Henry  Despard.  I 
called  on  him,  and  he  received  me  with  un- 
bounded delight.  He  made  me  tell  him  all 
about  myself,  and  I  imparted  to  him  ns  much  of 
the  events  of  the  voyage  and  quarantine  as  was 
advisable.  I  did  not  go  into  particulars  to  any 
extent,  of  course.  I  mentioned  nothing  about 
the  grave.  That,  dearest  sister,  is  a  secret  be- 
tween you,  and  me,  and  her.  For  if  it  should 
be  possible  that  she  should  ever  be  restored  to 
ordinary  human  sv-mpathy  and  feeling,  it  will 
not  be  well  that  all  the  world  should  know  what 
has  happened  to  her. 

His  regiment  was  ordered  to  Halifax,  and  I 
concluded  to  comply  with  his  urgent  solicitations 
and  accompany  him.  It  is  better  for  her  at  any 
rate  that  there  should  be  more  friends  than  one 
to  protect  her.  Despard,  like  the  doctors,  sup- 
poses that  she  is  in  a  stupor. 

The  ioumey  here  exercised  a  favorable  influ- 
ence over  her.  Her  strength  increased  to  a 
marked  deferee,  and  she  has  once  or  twice  spok- 
en about  the  past.  She  told  me  that  her  father 
wrote  to  his  son  Louis  in  Australia  some  weeks 
before  his  death,  and  urged  him  to  come  home. 
She  thinks  that  he  is  on  his  way  to  England. 
The  Colonel  and  I  at  once  thought  that  be  ought 
to  be  sought  after  without  delay,  and  he  promised 
to  write  to  his  nephew,  your  old  playmate,  who, 
he  tells  me,  is  to  be  a  neighbor  of  yours. 

If  he  is  still  the  one  whom  I  remember — in- 
tellectual yet  spiritual,  with  sound  reason,  yet  a 
strong  heart,  if  he  is  still  the  Courtenay  Despard 
who,  when  a  boy,  seemed  to  me  to  look  out  upon 
the  world  before  him  with  such  lofty  poetic  en- 
thusiasm— then,  Ter&sella,  you  should  show  him 
this  diary,  for  it  will  cause  him  to  understand 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


Tl 


ihinga  which  he  ought  to  know.  I  mppoM  it 
would  be  unintelligible  to  Mr.  Thornton,  who  is 
a  muat  eDtimuI'le  man,  but  who,  from  the  nature 
uf  luM  mind,  if  he  read  this,  would  only  conclude 
that  the  writer  was  iintane. 

At  any  rate,  Mr.  Thornton  should  be  informed 
of  the  leading  facta,  so  that  he  may  see  if  some- 
thing can  be  done  to  alleviate  the  distress,  or  to 
avenge  the  wrongs  of  one  whoso  father  was  the 
•arliest  benefactor  of  his  £umly. 


CHAFfER  XVI. 

HUSBAND     AND    WIFE. 

"It  is  now  the  middle  of  Fehrunry,"  said 
Despard,  after  a  long  pause,  in  which  he  had 
given  himself  up  to  the  strange  reflections  which 
the  diary  was  calculated  to  excite.  "  If  Louis 
Brandon  left  Australia  when  he  was  called  he 
must  be  in  England  now." 

"  You  are  calm,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "Have 
you  nothing  more  to  say  than  that  ?" 

Despard  looked  at  her  earnestly.  ' '  Do  you  ask 
me  such  a  question  ?  It  is  a  stoiy  so  full  of  an- 
guish that  the  heart  might  break  out  of  pure  sym- 
pathy, but  whrt(  words  could  be  found  ?  I  have 
nothing  to  say.  1  am  speechless.  My  God! 
what  horror  thou  dost  permit!" 

"But  something  must  be  done,"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton,  impetuously. 

"Yes,"  said  Despard,  slowly,  "but  what? 
If  we  could  reach  our  hands  over  the  grave  and 
bring  back  those  who  have  passed  away,  then  the 
soul  of  Edith  might  find  peace ;  but  now — now — 
we  can  give  her  no  peace.  IShe  only  wishes  to 
die.  Yet  something  must  be  done,  and  the  first 
thing  is  to  find  Louis  Brandon.  I  will  start  for 
London  to-n>ght.  I  will  go  and  seek  him,  not 
for  Edith  8  sake  but  for  his  own,  that  I  may  save 
one  at  least  of  this  family.  For  her  there  is  no 
comfort.  Our  efforts  are  useless  there.  If  we 
could  give  her  thf  greatest  earthly  happiness  it 
would  be  poor  and  .nean,  and  stUl  she  would  sigh 
after  that  starry  coLipanionship  from  which  her 
soul  has  been  withdrawn." 

"Then  you  believe  it." 

"Don't  you?" 

"Of  course;  but  I  did  not  know  that  you 
would." 

"VVhy  not?  and  if  I  did  not  believe  it  this 
at  least  would  be  plain,  that  she  herself  believes 
it.  And  even  if  it  be  a  hallucination,  it  is  a 
sublime  one,  and  so  vivid  that  it  is  the  same  to 
her  as  a  reality.  Let  it  be  only  a  dream  that  has 
taken  place — sdll  that  dream  has  made  all  other 
things  dim,  indistinct,  and  indifierent  to  her." 

"No  one  but  you  would  read  Paolo's  diary 
without  thinking  him  insane." 

Despard  smiled.  "Even  that  would  be  no- 
thing to  me.  Some  people  think  that  a  great 
genius  must  be  insane. 

•Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied,' 

you  know.  For  my  part,  I  consider  Paolo  the 
sublimest  of  men.  When  I  saw  him  last  I  was 
only  a  boy,  and  he  came  with  his  seraphic  face 
and  his  divine  music  to  give  me  an  inspiration 
which  has  biased  my  lite  ever  since.  I  have 
only  knovNTi  one  spirit  like  his  among  those  whom 
I  have  met." 


An  indescribable  sadness  passed  over  )ils  face. 
"  Rut  now,"  he  con.inued,  suddenly,  "  I  su|ipo«e 
Thornton  must  see  my  uncle's  letter.  IIi»  legal 
mind  may  discern  some  things  which  the  law  may 
do  in  this  case.  Edith  is  beyond  all  consolation 
from  human  beings,  and  still  farther  beyond  all 
help  from  English  law.  But  if  Louis  Brandou 
can  be  found  the  law  may  exert  itself  in  his  favor. 
In  this  respect  he  may  be  useful,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  he  wosdd  take  up  the  case  earnestly,  out 
of  his  strong  sense  of  justice." 

When  Thornton  come  in  to  dinner  Despard 
handed  him  his  uncle's  letter.  The  lawyer  read 
it  with  deep  attention,  and  without  a  word. 

Mrs.  Thornton  looked  agitated — sometimes 
resting  her  head  on  her  hand,  at  others  looking 
fixedly  at  her  husband.  As  soon  as  he  had  fin- 
ished she  said,  in  a  calm,  measured  tone : 

"  I  did  not  know  before  that  Brandon  of  Bran- 
don Hall  and  all  his  family  had  perished  so  mis- 
erably." 

Thornton  started,  and  looked  at  her  earnestly. 
She  returned  his  gaze  with  unutterable  sadness  in 
her  eyes. 

"  He  saved  my  father's  life,"  said  she.  "  H« 
benefited  him  greatly.  Your  father  idso  was 
under  slight  obligations  to  him.  I  thought  that 
things  like  these  constituted  a  faint  claim  on 
one's  gratitude,  so  that  if  one  were  ex|X)8ed  to 
misfortune  he  might  not  be  altogether  destitute 
of  friends." 

Thornton  looked  imeasy  as  his  wife  8p«)ke. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  you  do  not  understand." 

"  True,"  she  answered ;  "  for  this  thing  is  al- 
most incredible.  If  my  father's  friend  has  died 
in  misery,  uni)itied  and  unwept,  forsaken  by  all, 
do  I  not  s'lare  the  guilt  of  ingratitude  ?  How  can 
I  alfsolve  myself  from  blame  ?" 

"  Set  your  mind  at  rest.  You  never  knew  any 
thing  about  it.  I  told  you  nothing  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

"  Then  you  knew  it !" 

"Stop!  You  can  not  understand  this  unless 
I  explain  it.  You  are  stating  bald  facts;  but 
these  facts,  painful  as  they  are,  are  very  much 
modified  by  circumstances." 

"  Well,  then,  I  hope  you  will  tell  me  all,  with- 
o'lt  reserve,  for  I  wish  to  know  how  it  is  that  this 
horror  has  happened,  and  I  have  stood  idly  and 
coldly  aloof.  My  God!"  she  cried,  in  Italian; 
"  did  he.  not — did  they  not  in  their  last  moments 
think  of  me,  and  wonder  how  they  could  have 
been  betrayed  by  Langhetti's  daughter!" 

"  My  dear,  be  culm,  I  pray.  Y'^ou  are  blaming 
yourself  unjustly,  I  assure  you." 

Despard  was  ghastly  pale  as  this  conversation 
went  on.     He  turned  his  face  away. 

"Ralph  Brandon,"  began  Thornton,  "was  a 
man  of  many  high  qualities,  but  of  unbounded 
pride,  and  utterly  impracticable.  He  was  no 
judge  of  character,  and  therefore  was  easily  de- 
ceived. He  was  utterly  inexperienced  in  busi- 
ness, and  he  was  always  Uable  to  be  led  astray  by 
any  sudden  impulse.  Somehow  or  other  a  man 
named  Potts  excited  his  interest  about  twelve  or 
fifteen  years  ago.  He  was  a  mere  vulgar  adven- 
turer ;  but  Brandon  l)ecame  infatuated  with  him, 
and  actually  believed  that  this  man  was  worthy 
to  be  intrusted  with  the  management  of  large 
business  transactions.  The  thing  went  on  for 
years.  His  friends  all  remonstrated  with  him. 
I,  in  particular,  went  there  to  explain  to  him  that 


78 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


the  speculation  in  which  he  was  engaged  could  not 
result  in  any  thing  except  loss.  But  he  resented 
all  interference  and  I  had  to  leave  him  to  him- 
self. 

*'  His  son  Louis  was  a  boy  full  of  energy  and 
fire.  The  family  were  all  indignant  at  the  confi- 
dence which  Ralph  Brandon  put  in  this  Potts — 
Louis  most  of  all.  One  day  he  met  Potts. 
Words  passed  between  them,  and  Ix)uis  wtruck 
the  scoundrel.  Potts  complained.  Brandon  had 
his  son  up  on  the  spot ;  and  after  listening  to  his 
explanations  gave  him  the  alternative  either  to 
apologize  to  Potts  or  to  leave  the  house  forever. 
Louis  indignantly  denounced  Potts  to  his  father 
!i8  a  swindler.  Brandon  ordered  him  t(  his  room, 
and  gave  him  a  week  to  decide. 

"The  servants  whispered  till  the  matter  was 
noised  abroad.  Th«  county  gentry  had  a  meet- 
ing about  it,  and  felt  so  strongly  that  they  did 
an  unparalleled  thing.  They  actually  waited  on 
hi  A  to  assure  him  that  Potts  was  unworthy  of 
trust,  and  to  urge  him  not  to  treat  his  son  so 
harshly.  All  Brandon's  pride  was  roused  at  this. 
He  said  words  to  the  deputation  which  cut  him 
off  forever  from  their  sympathy,  and  they  left  in 
a  rage.  Mrs.  Brandon  wrote  to  me,  and  I  went 
there.  I  found  Brandon  inflexible.  I  urged  him 
to  give  his  son  a  longer  time,  to  send  him  to  the 
anny  for  a  wiiile,  to  do  any  thing  rather  than 
eject  him.  He  refused  to  change  his  sentence. 
ITien  I  pointed  outithe  character  of  Potts,  and 
told  him  many  things  that  I  had  heard.  At  this 
he  hinted  that  I  wished  to  have  the  management 
of  his  business,  and  was  actuated  by  mercenary 
motives.  Of  course,  after  this  insult,  nothing 
more  was  to  be  said.  I  went  home  and  tried  to 
forget  all  about  the  Brandons,  At  the  end  of 
the  week  Louis  refused  to  apologize,  and  left  his 
father  forever." 

"  Did  you  see  Louis  ?" 

"I  saw  him  before  that  insult  to  ask  if  he 
would  apologize. " 

"Did  you  tr\-  to  make  him  apologize?"  asked 
Mrs.  Thornton,  coldly. 

"Yes.  But  he  looked  at  me  with  such  an 
air  that  I  had  to  apologize  myself  for  hinting  at 
such  a  thing.    He  was  as  infle?' "ble  as  his  father. " 

"  How  else  could  he  have  been?" 

"  Well,  each  might  have  yielded  a  little.  It 
does  not  do  to  be  so  inflexible  if  one  would  suc- 
ceed in  life." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "Success  must 
be  gained  by  flexibility.  The  martyrs  were  all 
infle.xible,  and  they  were  all  unsuccessful. " 

Thornton  looked  at  his  wife  hastily.  Des- 
pard's  hand  trembled,  and  his  face  grew  paler 
still  with  a  more  livid  pallor. 

"  Did  you  try  to  do  any  thing  for  the  ruined 
son?" 

"  How  could  I,  after  that  insult?" 

"Could  you  not  have  got  him  a  government 
office,  or  purchased  a  commission  for  him  in  the 
aiTiiy?" 

"  He  would  not  have  taken  it  ft-om  me." 

"You  could  have  co-operated  with  his  mo- 
ther, and  done  it  in  her  name. " 

"  I  could  not  enter  the  house  after  being  in- 
sulted." 

' '  You  could  have  written.  From  what  I  have 
heard  of  Brandon,  he  was  just  the  man  who 
would  have  blessed  any  one  who  w  ould  interpose 
to  save  his  son.' 


"  His  son  did  not  wish  to  be  saved.  He  has 
all  his  father's  inflexibility,  but  an  intellect  as 
clear  as  that  of  the  most  practical  man.  He  has 
a  will  of  iron,  dauntless  resolution,  and  an  im- 
l)lacaWe  temper.  At  the  same  time  he  has  the 
open  generosity  and  the  tender  heart  of  his  father. " 

"  Had  his  father  a  tender  heart?" 

"  So  tender  and  affectionate  that  this  sacrifice 
of  his  son  must  have  overwhelmed  him  with  the 
deepest  sonow." 

"  Did  you  ever  after  make  any  advances  to  any 
of  them  ? ' 

"  No,  never.     I  never  went  near  the  house." 

"  Did  you  ever  visit  any  of  the  county  gentry 
to  see  if  something  could  be  done  ?" 

"  No.  It  would  have  been  useless.  Besides, 
the  very  mention  of  his  name  would  have  been 
resented.  I  should  have  had  to  fling  myself 
headlong  against  the  feelings  of  the  whole  public. 
And  no  man  ha^i  any  right  to  do  that." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton.  "No  man  has. 
That  was  another  mistake  that  the  martyrs  made. 
They  would  fling  themselves  against  public  opin- 
ion." 

"All  men  can  not  be  marfjTs.  Besides,  the 
cases  are  not  analogous." 

Thornton  spoke  calm.ly  and  dispassionately. 

"  True.  It  is  absurd  in  me;  but  I  admire  one 
who  has  for  a  moment  foi:gotten  his  own  interests 
or  safety  in  thinking  of  others. " 

"That  does  very  well  for  poetry,  but  not  in 
real  life." 

"In  real  life,  such  as  that  on  board  the  Te- 
cumseh  f  murmured  Mrs.  Thornton,  with  droop- 
ing eyehds. 

"  You  are  getting  excited,  my  dear,"  said 
Thornton,  patiently,  w  ith  the  air  of  a  wise  father 
who  overlooks  the  petulance  of  his  child.  "I 
will  go  on.  I  had  business  on  the  Continent 
when  ix)or  Brandon's  ruin  occurred.  You  were 
with  me,  my  dear,  at  Berlin  when  I  heard  about 
it.  I  felt  shocked,  but  not  surprised.  I  feared 
that  it  would  come  to  that." 

"You  showed  no  emotion  in  particular." 

"  No ;  I  was  careful  not  to  trouble  you." 

"You  were  in  Berlin  three  months.  Was  it 
at  the  beginning  or  end  of  your  stay  ?" 

"At  the  beginning." 

"And  you  staid?" 

"  I  had  business  which  I  could  not  leave." 

"Would  you  have  been  mined  if  vou  had 
left?" 

"Well,  no — not  exactly  ruined,  but  it  would 
have  entailed  serious  consequences." 

"Would  those  consequences  have  been  as  se- 
rious as  the  Tecutnseh  tragedy  ?" 

"  My  dear,  in  business  there  are  rules  which  a 
mnn  is  not  permitted  to  neglect.  There  are  du- 
ties .and  obligations  which  are  imperative.  The 
code  of  honor  there  is  as  deUcate,  yet  as  rigid,  as 
elsewhere." 

"And  yet  there  are  times  when  all  obligation* 
of  this  sort  are  weakened.  When  friends  die, 
this  is  recognized.  Why  should  it  not  be  so 
when  they  are  in  danger  of  a  fate  worse  than 
death?" 

Thornton  elevated  his  eyebrows,  and  made  no 
reply. 

"You  must  have  heard  about  it  in  March, 
then  ?" 

"Yes,  at  the  end  of  Januarj-.  His  ruin  took 
place  in  December,  1845.     It  was  the  middle  of 


."' 


COKD  AND  CKEE^iE. 


THEK,  COVKRISC    HER   FACE    WITH    HER   HAXU.S,   ^HE    liURST    INTO   AN    AGONY   OF    TEAKS. 


May  before  I  got  home.  I  then,  toward  the 
end  of  the  month,  sent  my  clerk  to  Brandon  vil- 
lage to  make  inquiries.  He  brought  word  of 
the  death  of  Brandon,  and  the  departure  of  his 
family  to  parts  unknown. " 

"  Did  he  make  no  particular  inquiries  ?" 

"No." 

"And  you  said  not  a  word  to  me !" 

"  I  was  afraid  of  agitating  you,  my  dear." 

"And  therefore  you  have  secured  for  me  un- 
ending self-reproach." 

"Why  so?  Surely  you  are  blaming  yourself 
without  a  shadow  of  a  cause." 

"  I  will  tell  you  why.  I  dare  say  I  feel  unnec- 
essarily on  the  subject,  but  I  can  not  help  it.  It  is 
a  fiict  that  Brandon  was  always  impulsive  and  cul- 
pably careless  about  himself.  It  is!  to  this  quality, 
strangely  enough,  that  I  owe  my  father's  life,  and 
my  own  comfort  for  many  years.  Taolo  also 
owes  as  much  as  I.  Mr.  Brandon,  with  a  friend 
of  his,  was  sailing  through  the  Mediterranean  in 
his  own  yacht,  making  occasional  tours  into  the 
country  at  every  place  where  they  happened  to 
land,  and  at  last  they  came  to  Girgenti,  with  the 
intention  of  examining  the  niins  of  Agrigentum. 
This  was  in  1818,  four  years  before  I  was  bom. 
My  father  was  stopping  at  Uirgenti,  with  his  wife 
£ 


and  Paolo,  v  ho  was  then  six  years  old.  My  father 
had  been  verv-  active  under  the  reign  of  Murat, 
and  had  held  a  high  post  in  his  government. 
This  made  him  suspected  after  Murat's  over- 
throw. 

"On  the  day  that  these  Englishmen  visited 
Girgenti,  a  woman  in  deep  distress  came  to  see 
them,  along  with  a  little  boy.  It  was  my  mo- 
ther and  Paolo.  She  flung  herself  on  the  floor  at 
their  feet,  and  j)ra}  eu  them  to  try  and  help  her 
husband,  who  had  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of 
treason  and  was  now  in  prison.  He  was  sus- 
pected of  belonging  to  tlie  Carbonari,  who  were 
just  beginning  to  resume  their  secret  plots,  and 
were  showing  great  activity.  My  father  be- 
longed to  the  inneiTnost  degree,  and  had  been 
betrayed  by  a  villain  named  Cigole.  My  mo- 
ther "did  not  tell  them  all  this,  but  merely  in- 
formed them  of  his  danger. 

"At  first  they  did  not  know  what  to  do,  but 
the  prayers  of  my  mother  moved  their  hearts. 
They  went  to  see  the  captain  of  the  guard,  and 
tried  to  bribe  him,  but  without  effect.  They 
found  out,  however,  where  my  father  was  con- 
fined, and  resolved  upon  a  desperate  plan.  They 
put  my  mother  and  Paolo  on  board  of  the  j-acht, 
and  by  paying  a  lieavy  bribe  obtained  permit- 


74 


CORD  AND  CREESE, 


Bion  to  visit  my  father  in  prison.  Brandon's 
friend  was  about  the  same  height  as  my  father. 
When  they  reached  his  cell  they  urged  my  fa- 
ther to  exchange  clothes  with  him  and  escape. 
At  first  he  positively  refused,  Lut  when  assured 
that  Brandon's  friend,  being  an  Englishman, 
would  be  set  free  in  a  few  days,  he  tonsented. 
Brandon  then  took  him  away  unnoticed,  put  him 
on  board  of  the  yacht,  and  sailed  to  Marseilles, 
where  he  gave  him  money  enough  to  get  to  En- 
gland, and  told  him  to  stop  at  Brandon  Hall  till 
he  himself  arrived.  He  then  sailed  back  to  see 
about  his  friend. 

*'  He  found  out  nothing  about  hinr.  for  some 
time.  At  last  he  induced  the  Britis'i  embassa- 
dor to  take  the  matter  in  hand,  ana  he  did  so 
with  such  effect  that  the  prisoner  was  liberated. 
He  had  been  treated  with  some  severity  at  first, 
but  he  was  young,  and  the  government  was 
persuaded  to  look  upon  it  as  a  youthful  freak. 
Brandon's  powerful  influence  with  the  British 
embassador  obtained  his  unconditional  release. 

"My  father  afterward  obtained  a  situation 
here  at  Holby,  where  he  was  organist  till  he 
died.*  Through  all  his  life  he  never  ceased  to 
receive  kindness  and  delicate  acts  of  attention 
from  Brandon.  When  in  his  last  sickness  Bran- 
don came  and  staid  with  him  till  the  end.  He 
then  wished  to  do  something  for  Paolo,  but  Pa- 
olo preterred  seeking  his  own  fortune  in  his  own 
way." 

Mrs.  Thornton  ended  her  little  narrauve,  to 
which  Despard  had  listened  with  the  deepest  at- 
tention. 

"Who  was  Brandon's  friend?''  asked  Des- 
pard. 

"  He  was  a  British  officer,"  said  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton. "For  fear  of  dragging  in  his  government, 
and  perhaps  incurring  dismissal  from  the  army, 
he  gave  an  assumed  name — Mountjoy.  This 
was  the  reason  why  Brandon  was  so  long  in  find- 
ing him." 

"Did  your  father  not  know  it ?" 

"On  the  passage  Brandon  kept  it  secret,  and 
after  his  friend's  deliverance  he  came  to  see  my 
father  under  his  assumed  name.  My  father  al- 
ways spoke  of  him  as  Mountjoy.  A^ter  a  time 
he  heaid  that  he  was  dead." 

"I  can  tell  you  his  true  name,"  said  Mr. 
Thornton.  "  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  know  it." 

"What?" 

"Lionel  Despard  —  your  father,  and  Ralph 
Brandon's  bosom  friend. " 

Despard  looked  transfixed.  Mrs.  Thornton 
gazed  at  her  husband,  and  gave  an  unutterable 
look  at  Despard,  then,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  she  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"My  God,"  cried  Despard,  passing  his  hand 
over  his  forehead,  "my  father  died  when  I  was 
a  child,  and  nobody  was  ever  able  to  tell  me  any 
thing  about  him.  And  Brandon  was  his  friend. 
He  died  thus,  and  his  family  have  perished  thus, 
while  I  have  known  nothing  and  done  nothing." 

' '  You  at  least  are  not  to  blame,"  said  Thornton, 
calmly,  "  for  you  had  scarcely  heard  of  Brandon's 
name.  You  were  in  the  north  of  England  when 
this  happened,  and  knew  nothing  whatever  about 
it." 

That  evening  Despard  went  home  with  a  deep- 
er trouble  in  his  heart.  He  was  not  seen  at  the 
Grange  for  a  month.    At  the  end  of  that  time  he 


returned.  He  had  been  away  to  London  during 
the  whole  interval. 

As  Mrs.  Thornton  entered  to  greet  him  her 
whole  faCe  was  overspread  with  an  exp'-'-sion  of 
radiant  joy.  He  took  both  her  hands  iii  his  and 
pressed  them  without  a  word.  "  Welcome  back," 
she  murmured — "you  have  been  gone  a  long 
time." 

"Nothing  but  an  overpowering  sense  of  duty 
could  have  kept  me  away  so  long,"  said  he,  in  a 
deep,  low  voice. 

A  few  similar  commonplaces  followed ;  but 
with  these  two  the  tone  of  the  voice  invested  the 
feeblest  commonplaces  with  some  hidden  mean- 
ing. 

At  last  she  asked :  "  Tell  me  what  success  you 
had  ?"  He  made  no  reply ;  but  taking  a  paper 
from  his  pocket  opened  it,  and  pointed  to  a 
marked  paragraph.  This  was  the  month  of 
March.  The  paper  was  dated  January  14,  1847. 
The  paragraph  was  as  follows  : 

"Distressing  Casualty. — The  ship  Java, 
which  left  Sydney  on  the  5th  of  August  last,  re- 
ports a  stormy  passage.  On  the  1 2th  of  Septem- 
ber a  distressing  casualtv  occurred.  They  were 
in  S.  lat.  11°  r  22",  E.'long.  105°  6'  3()  ,  when 
a  squall  suddenly  struck  the  ship.  A  passenger, 
Louis  Brandon,  Esq.,  of  the  firm  of  Compton  & 
Brandon,  Sydney,  was  standing  by  the  lee-quar- 
ter as  the  squall  stnick,  and,  distressing  to  nar- 
rate, he  was  hurled  violently  overboard.  It  was 
impossible  to  do  any  thing,  as  a  monsoon  was 
beginning,  'v^ch  raged  for  twenty-four  hours. 
Mr.  Brandon  was  coming  to  England  on  bus- 
iness. 

"  The  captain  reports  a  sand-bank  in  the  lati- 
tude and  longitude  indicated  above,  which  he 
names  'Coftin  Island,'  from  a  rock  of  pecidiar 
shape  at  the  eastern  extremity.  Ships  will  do 
well  in  future  to  give  this  place  a  wide  berth." 

Deep  despondency  came  over  Mre.  Thornton's 
face  as  she  read  this.  "We  can  do  nothing," 
said  she,  moumfidly.  "He  is  gone.  It  is  bet- 
ter for  him.  We  must  now  wait  till  we  hear 
more  from  Paolo.     I  will  write  to  him  at  once. " 

"And  I  will  write  to  my  uncle." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  "Do  you  know," 
said  Despard,  finally,  "that  I  have  been  think- 
ing much  about  my  father  of  late.  It  seems  very 
strange  to  me  that  my  uncle  never  told  me  about 
thatSicilianatfairbefoie.  Perhaps  hedid  not  wish 
me  to  know  it,  for  fear  that  through  all  my  life  I 
should  brood  over  thoughts  of  that  noble  heart  lost 
to  me  forever.  But  I  intend  to  write  to  him,  and 
obtain  afresh  the  particulars  of  his  death.  I  wish 
to  know  more  about  my  mother.  No  one  was 
ever  in  such  ignorance  of  his  parents  as  I  have 
been.  They  merely  told  me  that  my  father  and  , 
mother  died  suddenly  in  India,  and  left  me  an 
orphan  at  the  age  of  seven  under  the  care  of  Mr. 
Heniy  Thornton.  They  never  told  me  that  Bran- 
don was  a  very  dear  friend  of  his.  1  have  thought 
also  of  the  circumstances  of  his  death,  and  they 
all  seem  confused.  Some  say  he  died  in  Cal- 
cutta, others  say  in  China,  and  Mr.  Thornton 
orice  said  in  Manilla.  There  is  some  mysterv 
about  it." 

"  When  Brandon  was  visiting  my  father,"  said 
Mrs.  I'homton,  "you  were  at  school,  and  he  nev- 
er saw  you.  I  think  he  thought  you  were  Henrj 
Despard's  son. " 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


i:> 


"There's  some  mystery  about  it,"  said  Des- 
pard,  thoughtfully. 

When  Mr.  Thornton  came  in  that  night  he 
read  a  few  extracts  from  the  London  pajier  which 
he  had  just  received.     One  was  as  follows : 

"Foundered  at  Sea. — The  ship//.R  Smith, 
from  Calcutta,  which  arrived  yesterday,  rejKjrts 
that  on  the  28th  January  they  picked  up  a  ship's 
long-boat  near  the  Cape  Vend  Islands.  It  was 
floating  bottom  upward.  On  the  stem  was  paint- 
ed the  word  Falcon.  The  ship  Falcon  has  now 
been  expected  for  two  months,  and  it  is  feared 
from  this  that  she  may  have  foundered  at  sea. 
The  Falcon  was  on  her  way  from  Sydney  to  Lon- 
don, and  belonged  to  Messrs.  Kingwood,  Flax- 
man,  &  Co." 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  AFRICAN  FOREST. 

Let  us  return  to  the  castaways. 

It  was  morning  on  the  coast  of  Africa — Africa 
the  mysterious,  the  inhospitable  Africa,  leonum 
arida  nutrix. 

There  was  a  little  harbor  into  which  flowed  a 
shallow,  sluggish  river,  while  on  eacli  side  rose 
high  hills.  In  front  of  the  harbor  was  an  island 
which  concealed  and  protected  it. 

Here  the  palm-trees  grew.  The  sides  rose 
steeply,  the  summit  was  lofty,  and  the  towering 
palms  afforded  a  deep,  dense  shade.  The  grass 
was  fine  and  short,  and  being  protected  from  the 
withering  heat  was  as  fine  as  that  of  an  English 
lawn.  Up  the  palm-trees  there  climbed  a  thou- 
sand parasitic  plants,  covered  with  blossoms — 
gorgeous,  golden,  rich  beyond  all  description. 
Birds  of  starry  plumage  flitted  through  the  air, 
as  they  leaped  from  tree  to  tree,  uttering  a  short, 
wild  note ;  through  the  spreading  branches  sighed 
the  murmuring  breeze  that  came  from  off  the 
ocean;  round  the  shore  the  low  tones  of  the  gen- 
)ly-washing  surf  were  borne  as  it  came  in  in  faint 
undulations  from  the  outer  sea. 

Underneath  the  deepest  shadow  of  the  palms 
lay  Brandon.  He  had  lost  consciousness  when 
he  fell  from  the  boat ;  and  now  for  the  first  time 
he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  around  upon  the 
scene,  seeing  these  sights  and  hearing  the  mur- 
muring sounds. 

In  front  of  him  stood  Beatrice,  looking  with 
drooped  eyelids  at  the  grass,  her  arms  half  fold- 
ed before  her,  her  head  uncovered,  her  hair  bound 
by  a  sort  oi  iillet  around  the  crown,  and  then  gath- 
ered in  great  black  curling  masses  behind.  Her 
face  was  pale  as  usual,  and  had  the  same  marble 
whiteness  which  always  marked  it.  That  face 
was  now  pensive  and  sad ;  but  there  was  no  weak- 
ness there.  Its  whole  expression  showed  mani- 
festly the  self-contained  soul,  the  strong  spirit 
•\enly-poised,  willing  and  able  to  endure. 

Brandon  raised  himself  on  one  arm  and  looked 
wonderingiy  around.  She  started.  A  vivid  flash 
of  joy  spread  over  her  face  in  one  bright  smile. 
She  hunietl  up  and  knelt  down  by  him. 

"  Do  not  move — you  are  weak,"  she  said,  as 
tenderly  as  a  mother  to  a  sick  child. 

Brandon  looked  at  her  fixedly  for  a  long  time 
without  speaking.  She  placed  her  cool  hand  on 
his  f  >rehead.  His  eyes  closed  as  though  there 
Were  a  magnetic  power  in  her  touch.     After  a 


I  while,  as  she  removed  her  liand,  he  opened  his 
eyes  again.  He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  fer- 
vently to  his  lips.  "  I  know,"  said  he,  in  a  Iom-, 
'  dreamy  voice,  "  who  you  are,  and  who  I  am — but 
nothing  more.  I  know  that  I  have  lost  all  mem- 
ory ;  that  there  has  been  some  past  life  of  great 
sorrow ;  but  I  can  not  think  what  that  sorrow  is 
— I  know  that  there  has  been  some  misfortune, 
but  I  can  not  remember  what." 

Beatrice  smiled  sadly.  "It  will  all  come  to 
you  in  time." 

"At  first  when  I  waked,"  he  murmured,  "and 
looked  around  on  this  scene,  I  thought  that  I  had 
at  last  entered  the  spirit-world,  and  that  you  had 
come  with  me ;  and  I  felt  a  deep  joy  that  I  can 
never  e.xpress.  But  I  see,  and  I  know  now,  that 
I  am  yet  on  the  earth.  Though  what  shore  of 
all  the  earth  this  is,  or  how  I  got  here,  I  know 
not." 

"You  must  sleep,"  said  she,  gently. 

"And  you — ^you — you,"  he  mtmnured,  with 
indescribable  intensity — "you,  companion,  pre- 
ser\-er,  guardian  angel — I  feel  as  though,  if  I 
were  not  a  man,  I  could  weep  my  life  out  at  your 
feet." 

"  Do  not  weep,"  said  she,  calmly.  "  The  time 
for  tears  may  yet  come ;  but  it  is  not  now." 

He  looked  at  her,  long,  earnestly,  and  inquir- 
ingly, still  holding  her  hand,  which  he  had  pressed 
to  his  Ups.  An  unutterable  longing  to  ask  some- 
thing was  evident ;  but  it  waa  checked  by  a  pain- 
ful embarrassment. 

"I  know  nothing  but  this,"  said  he  at  last, 
"that  I  have  felt  as  though  sailing  for  years  over 
infinite  seas.  Wave  after  wave  has  been  impel- 
ling us  on.  A  Hindu  ser^'ant  guided  the  boat. 
But  I  lay  weak,  with  my  head  supported  by  you, 
and  your  ai-ms  around  me.  Yet,  of  all  the  days 
and  all  the  years  that  ever  I  have  known,  these 
were  supreme,  for  all  the  time  was  one  long  ec- 
stasy. And  now,  if  there  is  sorrow  before  me," 
he  concluded,  "I  will  meet  it  resignedly,  for  I 
have  had  my  heaven  already. " 

"  You  have  sailed  over  seas,  said  she,  sadly; 
"but  I  was  the  helpless  one,  and  you  saved  me 
from  death." 

"And  are  you — to  me — what  I  thought?"  he 
asked,  with  j)ainful  vehemence  and  imploring  eyes. 

"I  am  your  nurse,"  said  she,  with  a  melan- 
choly smile. 

He  sighed  heavily.  "Sleep  now,"  said  she, 
and  she  again  placed  her  hand  upon  his  forehead. 
I  Her  touch  soothed  him.  Her  voice  arose  in  a 
!  low  song  of  suqiassing  sweetness.  His  senses 
I  yielded  to  the  subtle  incantation,  and  sleep  came 
j  to  him  as  he  lay. 

When  he  awaked  it  was  almost  evening.  Leth- 
I  argy  was  still  over  him,  and  Beatrice  made  him 
i  sleep  again.  He  slept  into  the  next  day.  ( )n 
j  waking  there  was  the  same  absence  of  memorj'. 
;  She  gave  him  some  cordial  to  drink,  and  the 
draught  revived  him.  Now  he  was  far  stronger, 
and  he  sat  up,  leaning  against  a  tree,  while  Bea- 
trice knelt  near  him.  He  looked  at  her  long  and 
earnestly. 

"  I  would  wish  never  to  leave  this  place,  but  to 
stay  here, "  said  he.  "I  know  nothing  of  my  past 
life.  I  have  drunk  of  Lethe.  Yet  I  can  not  help 
struggling  to  regain  knowledge  of  that  past." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  bosom,  as  if  feeling  for 
some  relic. 

"  I  have  something  suspended  about  my  neck," 


7G 


CORD  AND  CHEESE. 


Raid  he,  "which  is  precious.  Perhaps  I  shall 
know  what  it  is  after  a  time." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  "Was  there  not  a  WTCck  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Yes ;  and  you  saved  my  life." 

"  Was  there  not  a  fight  with  pirates  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  yoa  saved  my  life,"  said  Beatrice 
again. 

"  I  begin  to  remember,"  said  Brandon.  "How 
long  is  it  since  the  wreck  took  place  ?" 

"  It  was  January  15." 

"  And  what  is  this  ?" 

"  February  C.     It  is  about  three  weeks." 

"  How  did  I  get  away?" 

"  In  a  boat  with  me  and  the  ser\ant." 

"Where  is  the  ser\ant?" 

"Away  providing  for  us.  Yon  had  a  sun- 
stroke.    He  carried  you  up  here." 

"  How  long  have  1  been  in  this  place  ?" 

"A  fortnight." 

Numerous  questions  followed.  Brandon's  mem- 
ory began  to  return.  Yet,  in  his  efforts  to  regain 
kn'  ledge  of  himself,  Beatrice  was  still  the  most 
prominent  object  in  his  thoughts.  His  dream-Ufe 
persisted  in  mingling  itself  with  his  real  life. 

"But  you,"  he  cried,  earnestly — "you,  how 
have  you  endured  all  this  ?  You  are  wear\- ;  you 
have  worn  yourself  out  for  me.  What  can  I  ever 
do  to  show  my  gratitude  ?  You  haye  watched  me 
night  and  day.  Will  you  not  have  more  care  of 
your  own  life  ?" 

The  eyes  of  Beatrice  kindled  with  a  soft  Ught. 
"What  is  my  Ufe?"  said  she.  "Do  I  not  owe 
it  over  and  over  again  to  you  ?  But  I  deny  that 
I  am  worn  out. " 

Brandon  looked  at  her  with  earnest,  longing 
eyes. 

His  recovery  was  rapid.  In  a  few  days  he  was 
able  to  go  about.  Cato  procured  fish  from  the 
waters  and  game  from  the  woods,  so  as  to  save 
the  provisions  of  tlie  boat,  and  they  looked  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  they  might  resume  their 
journey.  But  to  Brandon  this  thought  was  re- 
pugnant, and  an  hourly  struggle  now  went  on 
within  him.  Why  should  he  go  to  England? 
What  could  he  do?  Why  shoflld  he  ever  part 
from  her  ? 

"Oh,  to  burst  all  links  of  habit,  and  to  wander  far 
away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the 
day !" 

In  her  presence  he  might  find  peace,  and  pGipct- 
ual  rapture  in  her  smile. 

In  the  midst  of  such  meditations  as  these  her 
voice  once  arose  from  afar.  It  was  one  of  her 
own  songs,  such  as  she  could  improvise.  It  spoke 
of  summer  isles  amidst  the  sea ;  of  soft  winds 
and  spicy  breezes ;  of  eternal  rest  beneath  over- 
shadowing palms.  It  was  a  soft,  melting  strain — 
H  strain  of  enchantment,  sung  by  one  who  felt  the 
intoxication  of  the  scene,  and  whose  genius  im- 
parted it  to  others.  He  was  like  Ulysses  listen- 
ing to  the  song  of  the  sirens.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  though  all  nature  there  joined  in  that  manel- 
ous  strain.  It  was  to  him  as  though  the  very 
winds  were  lulled  into  calm,  and  a  delicious  lan- 
guor stole  upon  all  his  senses. 

"Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  god  Pan, 
Sweet  in  the  fields  by  the  river, 

Blinding  sweet,  oh  great  god  Pan, 
The  sun  on  the  hills  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lily  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  by  the  river." 


It  Avas  the  fitXiytjpvv  otrd,  the  uira  KaWifiov  of 
the  sirens. 

For  she  had  that  divine  voice  which  of  itself 
can  charm  the  soul ;  but,  in  addition,  she  had  that 
poetic  genius  which  of  itself  could  give  words 
which  the  music  might  clothe. 

Now,  as  he  saw  her  at  a  distance  through  the 
trees  and  marked  the  statuesque  calm  of  her 
classic  face,  as  she  stood  there,  seeming  in  her 
song  rather  to  soliloquize  than  to  sing,  breathing 
forth  her  music  "in  profuse  strains  of  unpremed- 
itated art,"  the  veiy  lieauty  of  the  singer  and 
the  very  sweetness  of  the  song  put  an  end  to  all 
temptation. 

"  Tliis  is  foUy,"  he  thought.  "  Could  one  Uke 
that  assent  to  my  wild  fancy  ?  Would  she,  with 
her  genius,  give  up  her  life  to  me?  No;  that 
divine  music  niust  be  heard  by  larger  numbers. 
IShe  is  one  who  thinks  she  can  interpret  the  in- 
spiration of  Mozart  and  Handel.  And  who  am 
1?" 

Then  there  came  amidst  this  music  a  still 
small  voice,  like  the  voice  of  those  helpless  ones 
at  home ;  and  this  voice  seemed  one  of  entreaty 
and  of  despair.  ISo  the  temptation  passed.  But 
it  passed  only  to  be  renewed  again.  As  for  Bea- 
trice, slie  seemed  conscious  of  no  such  effect  as 
this.  Cahnly  and  serenely  she  bore  herself,  sing- 
ing as  she  thought,  as  the  birds  sing,  because  she 
could  not  help  it.  Here  she  was  like  one  of  the 
classic  nymphs — like  the  genius  of  the  spot — like 
Calypso,  only  passionless. 

Now,  the  more  Brandon  felt  the  power  of  her 
presence  the  more  he  took  refuge  within  himself, 
avoiding  all  dangerous  topics,  speaking  only  of 
external  things,  calling  upon  her  to  sing  of  loftier 
themes,  such  as  those  '■'■deli  immensi"  of  which 
she  had  sung  wlien  he  first  heard  her.  Thus  he 
fought  down  the  struggles  of  his  own  heart,  and 
cnished  out  those  rising  impulses  which  threat- 
ened to  sweep  him  helplessly  away. 

As  for  Beatrice  herself  she  seemed  changeless, 
moved  by  no  passion  and  swayed  by  no  impulse. 
Was  she  altogether  passionless,  or  was  this  her 
matchless  self-control?  Brandon  thought  that  it 
was  her  nature,  and  that  she,  like  her  master 
Langhetti,  found  in  music  that  which  satisfied 
all  passion  and  all  desire. 

In  about  a  fortnight  after  his  recovery  from 
his  stupor  they  were  ready  to  leave.  The  pro- 
visions in  the  boat  were  enough  for  two  weeks' 
sail.  Water  was  put  on  board,  and  they  bade 
adieu  to  the  island  which  had  sheltered  them. 

This  time  Beatrice  would  not  let  Brandon  row 
while  the  sun  was  up.  They  rowed  at  niglit,  and 
by  day  tried  to  get  under  the  shadow  of  the  shore. 
At  last  a  wind  sprang  up ;  they  now  sailed  along 
swiftly  for  two  or  three  days.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  they  saw  European  houses,  beyond 
which  arose  some  roofs  and  spires.  It  was 
Sierra  Leone.  Brandon's  conjectures  had  been 
right.  On  landing  here  Brandon  simply  said 
that  they  had  been  wrecked  in  the  Falcon,  and 
had  escaped  on  the  boat,  all  the  rest  having  per- 
ished. He  gave  Ids  name  as  Wheeler.  The 
authorities  received  these  unfortunate  ones  witli 
great  kindness,  and  Brandon  heard  that  a  ship 
would  leave  for  England  on  the  6th  of  March. 

The  close  connection  which  had  existed  be- 
tween them  for  so  many  weeks  was  now  sever- 
ed, and  Brandon  thought  that  this  might  per- 
haps remove  that  extraordinary  power  wliicli  ho 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


n 


felt  that  she  exerted  over  him.  Not  so.  In 
her  absence  he  foand  himself  constnntly  looking 
forward  toward  a  meeting  with  her  again.  When 
with  her  he  found  the  joy  that  flowed  from  her 
presence  to  be  more  intense,  since  it  was  more 
concentrated.  He  began  to  feel  Alarme<l  at  his 
own  weakness. 

The  6th  of  March  came,  and  they  left  in  the 
ship  Juno  for  London. 

Now  their  intercourse  was  like  that  of  the  old 
days  on  board  the  Falcon. 

"It  is  like  the  Falcon,"  said  Beatrice,  on  the 
first  evening.  "  Let  us  forget  all  about  the  jour- 
ney over  the  sea,  and  our  stay  on  the  island. " 

"  I  can  never  forget  that  I  owe  ifiy  life  to  you," 
said  Brandon,  vehemently. 

"And  I,"  rejoined  Beatrice,  with  kindling 
eyes,  which  yet  were  softened  by  a  certain  emo- 
tion of  indescribable  tenderness — "I — how  can 
1  forget!  Twice  you  saved  me  from  a  fearftil 
death,  and  then  you  toiled  to  save  my  life  till 
your  own  sank  under  it." 

"I  would  gladly  give  up  a  thousand  lives" — 
said  Brandon,  in  a  low  voice,  while  his  eyes  were 
illumined  with  a  passion  which  had  never  before 
been  permitted  to  get  beyond  control,  but  now 
rose  visibly,  and  irresistibly. 

"If  you  have  a  life  to  give,"  said  Beatrice, 
calmly,  returning  his  fevered  gaze  with  a  full 
look  of  tender  sympathy — "if  you  have  a  life  to 
give,  let  it  be  given  to  that  purpose  of  yours  to 
which  you  are  devoted. " 

"  You  refuse  it,  then !"  cried  Brandon,  vehe- 
mently and  reproachfully. 

Beatrice  returned  his  reproachful  gaze  with 
one  equally  reproachful,  and  raising  her  calm 
eyes  to  Heaven,  said,  in  a  tremulous  voice, 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  so — least  of  all  to 
7«e.  I  said  what  you  feel  and  know ;  and  it  is 
this,  that  others  require  your  life,  in  comparison 
with  whom  I  am  nothing.  Ah,  my  friend,"  she 
continued,  in  tones  of  unutterable  sadness,  "  let 
us  be  friends  here  at  least,  on  the  sea,  for  when 
we  reach  England  we  must  be  separated  for  ever- 
more!" 

"For  evermore  I" cried  Brandon,  in  agony. 

"For  evermore!"  repeated  Beatrice,  in  equal 
anguish. 

"Do  you  feel  very  eager  to  get  to  England?" 
asked  Brandon,  aftei  a  long  silence. 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  know  that  there  is  sorrow  for  me 
there." 

"  If  our  boat  had  been  destroyed  on  the  shore 
of  that  island,"  he  asked,  in  almost  an  imploring 
voice,  "would  vou  have  giieved?" 

"No." 

"  The  present  is  better  than  the  future.  Oh 
that  my  dream  had  continued  forever,  and  that 
I  had  never  awaked  to  the  bitterness  of  life  I" 

"  That,"  said  Beatrice,  with  a  mournful  smile, 
"  is  a  reproach  to  me  for  watching  you." 

"  Yet  that  moment  of  awaking  was  sweet  be- 
yond all  thought,"  continued  Brandon,  in  a  mus- 
ing tone,  "  for  I  had  lost  all  memory  of  all  things 
except  you." 

They  stood  in  silence,  sometimes  looking  at 
one  another,  sometimes  at  the  sea,  while  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  Future  swept  gloomily  before  their 
syes. 

The  voyage  passed  on  until  at  last  the  En- 


glish shores  were  seen,  and  they  sailed  up  the 
Channel  amidst  the  thronging  siiips  that  pass  to 
and  fro  from  the  metrojKilis  of  the  world. 

"To-morrow  we  part,"  said  Beatrice,  as  she 
stood  with  Brandon  on  the  quarter-deck. 

"  No,"  said  Brandon  ;  "there  will  be  no  one 
to  meet  you  here,  I  must  take  you  to  your 
home." 

' '  To  my  home !  You  ?"  cried  Beatrice,  start- 
ing back.     "You  dare  not." 

"I  dare." 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is?" 

"  I  do  not  seek  to  know.  I  do  not  ask;  but 
yet  I  think  I  know. " 

"  And  j-et  you  offer  to  go  ?" 

"  I  must  go.    I  must  see  you  to  the  very  last." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  solemn  voice, 
"  since  it  is  the  very  last." 

Suddenly  she  looked  at  him  with  the  solemn 
gaze  of  one  whose  soul  was  liUed  with  thoughts 
that  overpowered  every  common  feeling.  It  was 
a  glance  lofty  and  serene  and  unimpassioned,  like 
that  of  some  spirit  which  has  passed  beyond  hu- 
man cares,  but  sad  as  that  of  some  prophet  of  woe. 

"Louis  Brandon !" 

At  this  mention  of  his  name  a  flash  of  unspeak- 
able surprise  passed  over  Brandon's  face.  She 
held  cut  her  hand.  "  Take  my  hand,"  said  she, 
calmly,  ' '  and  hold  it  so  that  I  may  have  strength 
to  sjjeak." 

"  Louis  Brandon !"  said  she,  "there  was  a  time 
on  t^at  African  island  when  you  lay  under  the 
tre  '  ^.  was  sure  that  you  were  dead.    Tliere 

w>  <ng  to  your  heart,  and  no  perceptible 

brea.  xhe  last  test  failed,  the  last  hope  left 
me,  and  I  knelt  by  your  head,  and  took  you  in 
my  arms,  and  wept  in  my  dd^spair.  At  your  feet 
Cato  knelt  and  mourned  in  his  Hindu  fashion. 
Then  mechanically  and  hopelessly  he  made  a  last 
trial  to  see  if  you  were  really  dead,  so  that  he 
might  prepare  your  grave.  He  put  his  hand  un- 
<ler  your  clothes  against  your  heart.  He  held  it 
"here  for  a  long  time.  Your  heart  gave  no  an- 
swer. He  withdrew  it,  and  in  doing  so  took 
something  away  that  was  saspended  about  your 
neck.  This  Avas  a  metallic  case  and  a  package 
wrapped  in  oiled  silk.     He  gave  them  to  me." 

Beatrice  had  spoken  with  a  sad,  measured 
tone — such  a  tone  as  one  sometimes  uses  in  pray- 
er—  a  passionless  monotone,  without  agitation 
and  without  shame. 

Brandon  answered  not  a  word. 

"  Take  my  hand,"  she  said,  "  cr  I  can  not  go 
through.     This  only  can  give  me  strength." 

He  clasped  it  tightly  in  both  of  his.  She  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  continued : 

"  1  thought  you  dead,  and  knew  the  full  meas- 
ure of  despair.  Now,  when  these  were  given 
me,  I  wished  to  know  the  secret  of  the  man  who 
had  twice  rescred  me  from  death,  and  finally 
laid  down  his  life  for  my  sake.  I  did  it  not 
through  curiosity.  I  did  it,"  and  her  voice  rose 
slightly,  with  solemn  emphasis — "I  did  it  through 
a  holy  feeling  that,  since  my  life  was  due  to  you, 
therefore,  as  yours  was  gone,  mine  should  replace 
it,  and  be  devoted  to  the  purpose  which  you  had 
undertaken. 

"I  opened  first  the  metallic  case.  It  was 
under  the  dim  shade  of  the  African  forest,  and 
while  holding  on  my  knees  the  head  of  the  man 
who  had  laid  down  his  life  for  me.  You  know 
what  I  read  there.     1  read  of  a  father's  lovn  and 


78 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


'  I   THOUGHT   TOU    DEAD,   AND    KNEW   THE   FULL  MEASURE    OF   DESPAIR. 


agony.  I  read  there  tlie  name  of  the  one  who 
had  driven  him  to  death.  The  shadows  of  the 
forest  grew  darker  aroimd  me ;  as  the  full  mean- 
ing of  that  revelation  came  over  my  soul  they 
deepened  into  blackness,  and  I  fell  senseless  by 
your  side. 

"Better  had  Cato  left  us  both  lying  there  to 
die,  and  gone  off  in  the  boat  himself.  But  he 
revived  me.  I  laid  you  down  gently,  and  propped 
up  your  head,  but  never  again  d^red  to  defile  you 
with  the  touch  of  one  so  infamous  as  I. 

"There  still  remained  the  other  package,  which 
I  read  —  how  you  reached  that  island,  and  how 
you  got  that  MS.,  I  neither  know  nor  seek  to 
discover ;  I  only  know  that  all  my  spirit  awaked 
within  me  as  I  read  those  words.     A  strange, 


inexplicable  feeling  arose.  I  for/;ot  all  about  you 
and  your  griefs.  My  whole  soul  was  fixed  on 
the  figure  of  that  bereaved  and  solitary  man,  who 
thus  drifted  to  his  fate.  He  seemed  to  speak  to 
me.  A  fancy,  bom  out  of  frenzy,  no  doubt,  for 
all  that  horror  well-nigh  drove  me  mad — a  fancy 
came  to  me  that  this  voice,  which  had  come  from 
a  distance  of  eighteen  years,  had  spoken  to  me ; 
a  wild  fancy,  because  I  was  eighteen  years  old, 
that  therefore  I  was  connected  with  these  eighteen 
years,  filled  my  whole  soul.  I  thought  that  this 
MS.  was  mine,  and  the  other  one  yours.  I  read 
it  over  and  over,  and  over  yet  again,  till  every 
word  forced  itself  into  my  memorj' — till  you  «od 
your  sorrows  sank  into  oblivion  beside  the  w>es 
of  this  man. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


79 


"  I  sat  near  you  all  that  night.  -  The  palms 
sighed  in  the  air.  I  dared  not  touch  you.  My 
l)ruin  whirled.  I  thought  I  heard  voices  out  at 
seu,  and  figures  appeared  in  the  gloom.  I 
thought  I  saw  before  me  the  form  o*^  Colonel 
Despard.  He  looked  at  me  with  sadness  unut- 
terable, yet  with  soft  pity  and  afiection,  and  ex- 
tended his  hand  as  though  to  bless  me.  Mad- 
der fancies  than  ever  then  rushed  through  my 
lirain.  But  when  morning  came  and  the  ex- 
( itement  had  passed  I  knew  that  I  had  been  de- 
lirious. 

"When  that  morning  came  I  went  over  to 
look  at  yoi'.  To  my  p.mazement,  you  were 
breathing.  Youi  life  was  '■enewed  of  itself.  I 
knelt  down  and  praised  God  for  this,  but  did  not 
dare  to  touch  you.  I  folded  up  the  treasures, 
and  toid  Cato  to  put  them  again  around  your 
neck.     Then  I  watched  yoii  till  you  recovered. 

"  But  on  that  night,  and  after  reading  those 
MSS.,  I  seemed  to  have  passed  into  another  stage 
of  being.  1  can  say  things  to  you  now  which  I 
would  not  have  dared  to  say  before,  and  strength 
is  given  me  to  tell  you  all  this  before  we  part  for 
evermore. 

"  I  have  awakened  to  inf.imy ;  for  what  is  in- 
ffimy  if  it  be  not  this,  to  bear  the  name  I  bear  ? 
Something  more  than  pride  or  vanity  has  been 
the  foundation  of  that  feeling  of  shame  and  hate 
with  which  I  have  always  ragarded  it.  And  I 
have  now  died  to  my  former  life,  and  awakened 
to  a  new  one. 

"Louis  Brandon,  the  agonies  which  may  be 
suffered  by  those  whom  you  seok  to  avenge  I  can 
conjecture  but  I  wish  never  t  >  hear.  1  pray 
God  that  I  may  never  know  what  it  might  break 
my  heart  to  learn.  You  must  save  them,  you 
must  also  avenge  them.  1  ou  are  strong,  and  you 
are  implacable.  When  you  strike  your  blow  will 
be  crushing. 

"  But  1  must  go  and  bear  my  lot  among  those 
you  strike ;  1  will  wait  on  among  them,  sharing 
their  infamy  and  their  fate.  When  your  blow 
falls  I  vnH  not  turn  away.  I  will  think  of  those 
dear  ones  of  yours  who  have  suffered,  and  for 
their  sakes  wiU  accept  the  blow  of  revenge." 

Brandon  had  held  her  hand  in  silence,  and  with 
a  convulsive  pressure  during  these  words.  As 
she  stopped  she  made  a  faint  effort  to  withdraw 
it.  He  would  not  let  her.  He  raised  it  to  his 
hps  and  pressed  it  there. 

Three  times  he  made  an  effort  :o  speak,  and 
each  time  failed.  At  last,  with  a  stnnig  exertion, 
he  uttered,  in  a  hoarse  voice  and  broken  tones, 

"  Oh,  Beatrice !  Beatrice !  how  I  love  you !" 

"I  know  it,"  said  she,  in  the  same  monotone 
which  she  had  used  before — a  tone  of  infinite 
mournfulness — "I  have  known  it  long,  and  I 
would  say  also,  'Louis  Brandon,  I  love  you,'  if 
it  were  not  that  this  would  be  the  last  infamy; 
that  you,  Brandon,  of  Brandon  Hall,  should  be 
loved  by  one  who  bears  my  name." 

The  hours  of  the  night  passed  away.  They 
■tood  watching  the  English  shores,  speaking  little. 
Brandon  clung  to  her  hand.  They  were  sailing 
up  the  Thames.    It  was  about  four  in  the  morning. 

"  We  shall  soon  be  there,"  said  he ;  "  sing  to 
me  for  the  last  time.  Sing,  and  forget  tor  a  mo- 
ment that  we  must  part." 

Then,  in  a  low  voice,  of  soft  but  penetrating 
tones,  which  thrilled  through  every  fibre  oi  Bran- 
don's being.  U^jatrice  began  to  siug : 


"Love  made  n«  one;  our  unity  .         ..    ,  , 

Is  Indissoluble  by  act  of  thine  ,  '   ' 

For  were  this  mortal  belne  ended. 
And  cor  freed  gprlts  In  toe  wurldl  above, 
Love,  paseine  o'er  the  grave,  would  join  ua  there, 
As  once  be  Joined  ns  here ; 
And  the  sad  memory  of  the  life  below 
Would  but  unite  us  cloeer  evermore. 
No  act  of  thine  may  loose 
Thee  from  the  eternal  bond, 
Nor  shall  Revenue  have  power    • 
To  diranite  us  there!" 

On  that  same  day  they  landed  in  London. 
The  Grovemor's  lady  at  Sierra  Leone  had  insisted 
on  replenishing  Beatrice's  wardrobe,  so  that  she 
showed  no  ajjpearance  of  having  gone  througli 
the  troubles  which  had  afflicted  her  on  sea  and 
shore. 

Brandon  took  her  to  a  hotel  and  then  went  to 
his  agent's.  He  also  examined  the  papers  for  the 
last  four  months.  He  read  in  the  morning  jour- 
nals a  notice  which  had  already  appealed  of  the 
arrival  of  the  ship  ott"  the  Nore,  and  the  state- 
ment that  three  of  the  passengers  of  the  Falcon 
had  reached  Sierra  Leone.  He  communicated 
to  the  owners  of  the  Falcon  the  particulars  of  the 
loss  of  the  ship,  and  earned  their  thanks,  for  they 
were  able  to  get  their  insurance  without  waiting 
a  year,  as  is  necessary  where  nothing  is  heard  of 
a  missing  vessel. 

He  traveled  with  Beatrice  by  rail  and  coach  as 
far  as  the  village  of  Brandon.  At  the  inn  he  en- 
gaged a  cai-riage  to  take  her  up  to  her  father's 
house.  It  was  Brandon  Hall,  as  he  very  well 
knew. 

But  little  was  said  during  all  this  time.  Words 
were  useless.  Silence  formed  the  best  conHnun- 
ion  tor  them.  He  took  her  hand  at  parting. 
She  sjroke  not  a  word ;  his  lips  moved,  but  no  au- 
dible sound  escaped.  Yet  in  their  eyes  as  they 
fastened  themselves  on  one  another  in  an  intense 
gaze  there  was  read  all  that  unutterable  passion 
of  love,  of  longing,  and  of  sorrow  that  each  felt. 

The  carriage  drove  oft".  Brandon  watched  it. 
"Now  farewell.  Love,  forever,"  he  murmured, 
"and  welcome  Vengeance!" 


CHAPTER  XVIIl. 

IJfQUIElES. 

So  many  years  had  elapsed  since  Brandon 
had  last  been  in  the  village  which  bore  the  family 
name  that  he  bad  no  fear  of  being  recognized. 
He  had  been  a  boy  then,  he  was  now  a  man. 
His  features  had  passed  from  a  transition  state 
into  their  maturer  fonn,  and  a  thick  beard  and 
mustache,  the  growth  of  the  long  voyage,  cov- 
ered the  lower  part  of  the  face  like  a  mask. 
His  nose  which,  when  he  left,  had  a  boyish 
roundness  of  outline,  had  since  become  refined 
and  chiseled  into  the  straight,  thin  Grecian  tj'pe. 
His  eyes  alone  remained  the  same,  yet  the  ex- 
pression had  grown  ditterent,  even  as  the  soul 
that  looked  forth  through  them  had  been  changed 
by  experience  and  by  suffering. 

He  gave  himself  out  at  the  inn  as  an  Ameri- 
can merchant,  and  went  out  to  begin  his  inqui- 
ries. Tearing  two  buttons  off  his  coat,  he  en- 
tered the  shop  of  the  A-illage  tailor. 

"  Good -morning,"  said  he,  civilly. 

"  Good-morning,  1^'ir ;  fine  morning,  Sir,"  an- 
swered the  tailor,  volubly.      He  was  a  littlt 


80 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


man,  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  on  looking  at 
Brandon  ho  had  to  put  his  head  on  one  side, 
which  he  did  with  a  quick,  odd  gesture. 

"There  are  two  buttons  off  my  coat,  and  I 
want  to  know  if  you  can  repair  it  for  me  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Sir ;  certainly.  Take  off  your 
coat.  Sir,  and  sit  down." 

"The  buttons,"  said  Brandon,  "are  a  little 
odd ;  but  if  you  have  not  got  any  exactly  like 
them,  any  thing  similar  will  do." 

"Oh,  I  think  we'll  fit  you  out,  Sir.  I  think 
we'll  fit  you  out,"  rejoined  the  tailor,  briskly. 

He  bustled  about  among  his  boxes  and  draw- 
ers, pulled  out  a  large  number  of  articles,  and 
finally  began  to  select  the  buttons  which  were 
nearest  like  those  on  the  coat. 

"This  is  a  fine  little  village,"  said  Brandon, 
carelessly, 

" /es,  Sir;  that's  a  fact.  Sir;  that's  just 
what  every  body  says,  Sir." 

"What  old  Hall  is  that  which  I  saw  just  out- 
side the  village  ?" 

"Ah,  Sir,  that  old  Hall  is  the  very  best  in  the 
whole  county.     It  is  Brandon  Hall,  Sir." 

"Brandon  Hall r 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"I  suppose  this  village  takes  the  name  from 
the  Hall — or  is  it  the  Hall  thai  is  named  after 
the  village?" 

"Well,  neither.  Sir.  Both  of  them  were 
named  after  the  Brandon  family." 

"  Is  it  an  old  family?    It  must  be,  of  course." 

"The  oldest  in  the  county.  Sir." 

"I  wonder  if  Mr.  Brandon  would  let  a  stran- 
ger go  through  his  grounds?  There  is  a  hill 
back  of  the  house  that  I  should  like  to  see." 

"  Mr.  Bran  Jon !"  exclaimed  the  tailor,  shak- 
ing his  head ;  "  Mr.  Brandon !  There  ain't  no 
Mr.  Brandon  now !" 

"How  is  that?" 

"Gone,  Sir — ruined — died  out." 

"  Then  the  man  that  lives  there  now  is  not 
Mr.  Brandon?' 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  Sir !  He,  Sir !  Why 
he  isn't  fit  to  clean  the  shoes  of  any  of  the  old 
Brandons !" 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  His  name,  Sir,  is  Potts." 

' '  Potts !  That  doesn't  sound  like  one  of  your 
old  county  names. " 

"  I  should  think  not.  Sir.  Potts !  Why,  Sir, 
he's  generally  believed  in  this  here  community 
to  be  a  villain.  Sir,"  said  the  little  tailor,  myste- 
riously, and  with  the  look  of  a  man  who  would 
like  very  well  to  be  questioned  further. 

Brandon  humored  him.     "  How  is  that?" 

"  It's  a  long  story.  Sir." 

"Oh,  well — tell  it.  I  have  a  great  curiosity 
tc  hear  any  old  stories  current  in  your  English 
villages.  I'm  an  American,  and  English  life  is 
new  to  me." 

"I'll  bet  you  never  heard  any  thing  like  this 
in  all  your  bom  days." 

"Tell  it  then,  by  all  means." 

The  tailor  jumped  down  from  his  seat,  went 
mysteriously  to  the  door,  looked  cautiously  out, 
and  then  returned. 

"It's  just  as  well  to  be  a  little  careful,"  said 
he,  "for  if  that  man  knew  that  I  was  talking 
about  him  he'd  take  it  out  of  me  quick  enough, 
I  tell  you." 

"  You  seem  to  be  afraid  of  him." 


"  We're  all  afraid  of  him  in  the  village,  and 
hate  him  ;  but  I  hope  to  God  he'll  catch  it  yet !" 

"  How  can  you  be  afraid  of  him  ?  You  all 
say  that  this  is  a  free  country. " 

"No  man.  Sir,  in  any  country,  is  free,  except 
he's  rich.  Poor  people  can  be  oppressed  in 
many  ways ;  and  most  of  us  are  in  one  way  or 
other  deijendent  on  him.  We  hate  him  all  the 
worse,  though.     But  I'll  tell  you  about  him." 

"  Yes,  go  on." 

"Well,  Sir,  old  Mr.  Brandon,  about  twenty 
years  ago,  was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the 
county.  About  fifteen  years  ago  the  man  Potts 
turned  up,  and  however  the  old  man  torjk  a  fan- 
cy to  him  I  never  conld  see,  but  he  did  take  a 
fancy  to  him,  put  all  his  money  in  some  tin 
mines  that  Potts  had  started,  and  the  end  of  it 
was  Potts  turned  out  a  scoundrel,  as  every  one 
said  he  would,  swindled  the  old  man  out  of  ev- 
ery j)enny,  and  mined  him  completely.  Bran- 
don had  to  sell  his  estate,  and  Pottf  bought  it 
with  the  very  money  out  of  which  he  had  cheat- 
ed the  old  man. " 

"Oh!  impossible!"  said  Brandon.  "Isn't 
that  some  village  gossip  ?" 

"I  wish  it  wn",  Sir — but  it  ain't.  Go  ask  any 
man  here,  and  he'll  tell  yon  the  same." 

"And  what  became  of  the  family?"  asked 
Brandon,  calmly. 

"  Ah,  Sir !  that  is  the  worst  part  of  it. " 

"Why?" 

"  I'll  tell  you.  Sir.  lie  was  ruined.  He  gav« 
up  all.  He  hadn't  a  penny  left.  He  went  out 
of  the  Hall  and  lived  for  a  short  time  in  a  small 
house  at  the  other  end  of  the  village.  At  last 
he  spent  what  little  money  he  had  left,  and  they 
all  got  sick.  You  wouldn't  bebeve  what  hai>- 
pened  after  that. " 

"What  was  it?" 

"They  were  all  taken  to  the  alms-house." 

A  burst  of  thunder  seemed  to  sound  in  Bran- 
don's ears  as  he  heard  this,  w  liicli  he  had  never 
even  remotely  imagined.  The  tailor  was  occu- 
pied with  his  own  thoughts,  and  did  not  notice 
the  wildness  that  for  an  instant  appeared  in 
Brandon's  eyes.  The  latter  for  a  moment  felt 
paralyzed  and  struck  down  into  nothingness  by 
the  shock  of  that  tremendous  intelligence. 

"The  people  felt  dreadfully  about  it,"  contin- 
ued the  tailor,  "  but  they  couldn't  do  any  thing. 
It  was  Potts  wh  had  the  family  taken  to  the 
alms-house.     Nobody  dared  to  interfere." 

"Did  none  of  the  county  families  do  any 
thing?"  said  Brandon,  who  at  last,  by  a  violent 
effort,  had  regained  his  composure. 

"No.  They  had  all  been  insulted  by  the  old 
man,  so  now  they  let  him  suffer. " 

"Had  he  no  old  friends,  or  even  acquaint- 
ances ?" 

"Well,  that's  what  we  all  asked  ourselves. 
Sir;  but  at  any  rate,  whether  he  had  or  not, 
they  didn't  turn  up — that  is,  not  in  time.  There 
was  a  young  man  here  when  it  was  too  late." 

"  A  voung  man  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"Was  he  a  relative?' 

"Oh  no.  Sir,  only  a  lawyer's  clerk;  wanted 
to  see  about  business  I  dare  say.  Perhaps  to 
collect  a  bill.  Let  me  see ;  the  lawyer  who  sent 
him  was  named  Thornton." 

"  Thnrjitoii !"  said  Brandon,  as  the  name  sank 
into  his  soul. 


CORD  AND  CREKSE. 


81 


"Yes;  he  lived  at  Holby." 

Brandon  dren°  a  long  breath. 

"No,  Sir;  no  friends  came,  whether  he  had 
anj  or  'not.  They  were  all  sick  at  the  alms- 
house for  weeks." 

"And  I  suppose  they  all  died  there?"  said 
Brandon,  in  a  strange,  sweet  voice. 

"  No,  Sir.     They  were  not  so  happy." 

"  What  suflFering  could  be  greater?" 

"They  do  talk  dreadfully  in  this  town,  Sir; 
and  I  dare  say  it's  not  true,  but  if  it  is  it's  enough 
to  make  a  man's  blood  run  cold. " 

"  You  excite  my  curiosity.  Remember  I  am 
an  American,  and  these  things  seem  odd  to  me. 
I  alwayst  thought  your  British  aristocrats  could 
not  be  ruined. " 

"Here  was  one,  Sir,  that  wn",  anyhow." 

"Goon." 

"Well,  Sir,  the  old  man  died  in  the  alms- 
house. The  others  got  well.  As  soon  as  they 
were  well  enough  they  went  away." 

" IIow  did  they  get  away?" 

"Potts  helped  them,"  replied  the  tailor,  in  a 
peculiar  tone.  "  They  went  away  from  the  vil- 
lage." 

"Where  did  they  go?" 

"  People  say  to  Liverpool.  I  only  tell  what  I 
know.  I  heard  young  Bill  Potts,  the  old  fellow's 
son,  boasting  one  night  at  the  inn  where  he  Was 
half  drunk,  how  they  had  served  the  Brandons. 
He  said  they  wanted  to  leave  the  village,  so  his 
father  helped  them  awav  to  America." 

"To  America?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

Brandon  made  no  rejoinder. 

"Bill  Potts  said  they  went  to  Liverpool,  and 
then  left  for  America  to  make  their  fortunes." 

"  What  part  of  America?"  asked  Brandon,  in- 
differently.    "  I  nc   er  saw  or  heard  of  them." 

"Didn't  you.  Sir?"  asked  the  tailor,  who  evi- 
dently thought  that  America  was  like  some  En- 
glish county,  where  every  body  may  hear  of  every 
body  else.  "That's  odd,  too.  I  was  going  to 
ask  you  if  you  had." 

"  I  wonder  what  ship  they  went  out  in  ?" 

"That  I  can't  say.  Sir.  Bill  Potts  kept  dark 
about  that.  He  said  one  thing,  though,  that  set 
us  thinking." 

"What  was  that?" 

"  Why,  that  they  went  out  in  an  emigrant  ship 
as  steerage  passengers." 

Brandon  was  silent. 

"Poor  people!"  said  he  at  last. 

By  this  time  the  tailor  had  finished  his  coat 
and  handed  it  back  to  him.  Having  obtained  all 
the  information  that  the  man  could  give  Bran- 
don paid  him  and  left. 

Passing  by  the  inn  he  walked  on  till  he  came 
to  the  alms-house.  Here  he  stood  for  a  while 
and  looked  at  it. 

Brandon  alms-house  was  small,  badly  planned, 
badly  managed,  and  badly  built,  every  thing  done 
there  was  badly  and  meanly  done.  It  was  white- 
washed from  the  topmost  point  of  every  chimney 
down  to  the  lowest  edge  of  the  basement.  A 
whited  sepulchre.  For  there  was  foulness  there, 
in  the  air,  in  the  surroundings,  in  every  thing. 
Squalor  and  dirt  reigned.  His  heart  grew  sick 
as  those  hideous  walls  rose  before  his  sight. 

Between  this  and  Brandon  Hall  there  was  a 
difference,  a  distance  nlmost  immeasurable;  to 
pass  f:om  one  to  the  other  might  be  conceived  of 


ns  incredible;  and  yet  that  passage  had  been 
made. 

To  fall  so  far  as  to  go  the  whole  distance  be- 
tween the  two ;  to  begin  in  one  and  end  in  the 
other ;  to  be  born,  brought  up,  and  live  and  move 
and  have  one's  b«ing  in  the  one,  and  then  to  die 
in  the  other;  what  was  more  incredible  than  this  ? 
Yet  this  had  been  the  fate  of  his  father. 

Leaving  the  place,  he  walked  directly  toward 
Brandon  Hall. 

Brandon  Hall  was  begun,  nobody  knows  ex- 
actly when ;  but  it  is  said  that  the  foundations 
were  laid  before  the  time  of  Egbert.  In  all  parts 
of  the  old  mansion  the  progress  of  English  civil- 
ization might  be  studied ;  in  the  Norman  arches 
of  the  old  chapel,  the  slender  pointed  style  of 
the  fifteenth  century  doorway  that  opened  to  the 
same,  the  false  Grecian  of  the  early  l^idor  period, 
and  the  wing  added  in  Elizabeth's  day,  the  days 
of  thct  old  Ralph  Brandon  who  sank  his  ship 
and  its  treasure  to  prevent  it  from  falling  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

Around  this  grand  old  Hall  were  scenes  which 
could  be  found  nowhere  save  in  England.  Wide 
fields,  forever  green  with  gi-ass  like  velvet,  over 
which  rose  groves  of  oak  and  elm,  giving  shelter 
to  innumerable  birds.  There  the  deer  bounded 
and  the  hare  four  I  a  coven.  The  broad  avenue 
that  led  to  the  Hall  went  up  through  a  world  of 
rich  sylvan  scenery,  winding  through  groves  and 
meadows  and  over  undulating  ground.  Before 
the  Hall  lay  the  open  sea  about  three  miles 
away ;  i  -ut  the  Hall  was  on  an  eminence  and 
overlooked  all  the  inter^•ening  ground.  Stand- 
ing there  one  might  see  the  gradual  decline  of 
the  country  as  it  sloped  downwai-d  toward  the 
margin  of  the  ocean.  On  the  left  a  bold  promon- 
tory juttetl  far  out,  on  the  nearer  side  of  which 
there  was  an  island  with  a  light-house ;  on  tlie 
right  was  another  promontory,  not  so  bold.  Be- 
tween these  two  the  wlwle  country  was  like  a 
garden.  A  little  cove  gave  shelter  to  small 
vessels,  and  around  this  cove  was  the  village  of 
Brandon. 

Brandon  Hall  was  one  of  the  oldest  and  most 
magnificent  of  the  great  halls  of  England.  As 
Brandon  looked  upon  it  it  rose  before  him 
amidst  the  groA-es  of  six  hundred  years,  its 
many-gabled  roof  rising  out  from  amidst  a  sea 
of  foliage,  speaking  of  wealth,  luxury,  splendor, 
power,  influence,  and  nil  that  men  hope  for,  or 
struggle  for,  or  fight  for ;  from  nil  of  whicli  he 
and  his  had  been  cast  out ;  and  the  one  who  had 
done  this  was  even  now  occupying  the  old  ances- 
tral seat  of  his  family. 

Brandon  entered  the  gate,  and  walked  up  the 
long  avenue  till  he  reached  the  Hall.  Here  he 
rang  the  bell,  and  a  servant  appeared.  "Is Mr. 
Potts  at  home  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  brusquely. 

"I  wish  to  see  him." 

"Who  shall  I  say?" 

"Mr.  Hendricks,  from  America." 

The  man  showed  him  into  the  drawing-room. 
Brandon  seated  himself  and  waited.  The  room 
was  furnished  in  the  most  elegant  manner,  most 
of  the  furniture  being  old,  and  all  familiar  to  him. 
He  took  a  hasty  glance  around,  and  closed  his 
eyes  as  if  to  shut  it  all  out  from  sight. 

In  a  short  time  a  man  entered. 

He  appeared  to  be  between  fifty  nnd  sixty 
years  of  age,  of  medium  size,  broad-shouldeied 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


"  von    AKK,   SIR.       JOHN    POTTS   OF   POTTS   HALL, 


and  Stout.  He  had  a  thoroughly  plebeian  air ; 
he  was  dressed  in  black,  and  had  a  bunch  of 
large  seals  dangling  from  beneath  his  waistcoat. 
His  face  was  round  and  fleshy,  his  eyes  were 
small,  and  his  head  was  bald.  The  general  ex- 
pression of  his  face  was  that  of  good-natured 
simplicity.  As  he  caught  sight  of  Brandon  a 
frank  smile  of  welcome  arose  on  his  broad,  fat 
face. 

Brandon  rose  and  bowed. 
"Am  I  addressing  Mr.  John  Potts?" 
' '  You  are.  Sir.     John  Potts  of  Potts  Hall. " 
"Potts    of  Potts  Hall!"  repeated  Brandon. 
Then,  drawing  a  card  from  his  pocket  he  handed 
it  to  Potts.     He  had  procured  some  of  these  in 
London.     The  card  read  as  follows : 

BEAMISH   &   HENDRICKS, 

FLOUS  KEBCHAma  &  FBOVISION  DEALERS, 

83  Feost  Street,  Cinoinsati, 
OHIO. 

"I,  Sir,"  said  Brandon,  "am  Mr.  Hendricks, 
junior  partner  in  Beamish  &  Hendricks,  and  I 
hope  you  are  quite  well." 

"Very  well,  thank  yon,"  answered  Potts, 
smiUng  and  sitting  down.  "  I  am  happy  to  see 
you." 


"  Do  you  keep  your  health,  Sir  ?" 

"Thank  you,  I  do,"  said  Potts.  "A  touch 
of  rheumatism  at  odd  times,  that's  all." 

Brandon's  manner  was  stiff  and  formal,  and 
his  voice  had  assumed  a  slight  nasal  intonation. 
Potts  had  evidently  looked  on  him  as  a  jjcrfect 
stranger. 

"I  hope.  Sir,  that  I  am  not  taking  up  your 
valuable  time.  You  British  noblemen  have  your 
valuable  time,  I  know,  as  well  as  we  business 
men." 

"No,  Sir,  no.  Sir,  not  at  all,"  said  Potts,  evi- 
dently greatly  delighted  at  being  considered  a 
Pritish  nobleman. 

"Well,  Sir  John — or  is  it  my  lord?"  said 
Brandon,  interrogatively,  correcting  himself,  and 
looking  inquiringlv  at  Potts. 

"Sir  John'll  do'," said  Potts. 

"Well,  Sir  John.  Being  in  England  on  busi- 
ness, I  came  to  ask  you  a  few  questions  about  a 
matter  of  some  importance  to  us. " 

"Proceefl,  Sir!"  said  Potts,  with  great  dig- 
nity. 

"There's  a  young  man  that  came  into  our  em- 
ploy last  October  whom  we  took  a  fancy  to,  or 
rather  my  senior  did,  and  we  have  an  idea  of 
promoting  him.  My  senior  thinks  the  world  of 
him,  has  the  young  man  at  his  house,  and  he  is 


CORD  AND  CHEESE. 


83 


even  making  up  to  IiIa  daughter.     He  calls  him- 
self BrftnUoii— Frank  Hraiidon." 

At  thiii  I'otts  started  from  an  easy  lounging 
attitude,  in  which  ho  was  trying  to  "do"  the 
British  noble,  and  with  startling  intensity  of  gaze 
looked  Hrandon  full  in  the  face. 

"  I  think  the  young  man  is  fairish,"  continues 
Brandon,  "  but  nothing  extraordinary.  He  is 
inilnstrious  and  sober,  but  he  ain't  quick,  and  he 
never  had  any  real  business  experience  till  he 
canio  to  us.  Now,  my  senior  from  the  very  first 
was  infatuated  with  him,  gave  him  a  large  sal- 1 
ar}',  and,  in  spite  of  my  warnings  that  lie  ought  i 
to  be  cautious,  he  wants  to  make  him  head- 
clerk,  with  an  eye  to  making  him  partner  next 
year.  And  so  bent  on  this  is  he  that  I  know  he 
would  dissolve  partnershiji  with  me  if  I  refused, 
take  the  yoimg  man,  let  him  marry  his  daughter, 
nnd  leave  him  all  his  money  when  he  dies. 
That's  no  small  sum,  for  old  Mr.  Beamish  is 
worth  in  real  estate  round  Cincinnati  over  two 
millions  of  dollars.  So.  ou  see,  I  have  a  right 
to  feel  anxious,  more  especially  as  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  Sir  John,  who  understand  these  mat- 
ters, that  I  thought  I  had  a  verj-  good  chance  my- 
self with  old  IJeamish's  daughter. " 

Brandon  spoke  all  this  very  rapidly,  and  with 
the  air  of  one  who  was  trying  to  conceal  his  feel- 
ings of  dislike  to  the  clerk  of  whom  he  was  so 
jealous.  Potts  looked  at  him  with  an  encoura- 
ging smile,  and  asked,  as  he  stop|>ed, 

"And  how  did  you  happen  to  hear  of  me  ?" 

"That's  just  what  I  was  coming  to.  Sir  John !" 
Brandon  drew  his  ciiair  nearer,  apparently  in 
deep  excitement,  and  in  a  more  nasal  tone  than 
ever,  with  a  confidential  air,  he  went  on  : 

"You  see,  I  mistrusted  this  young  man  who 
was  canying  every  thing  before  him  with  a  high 
hand,  right  in  my  very  teeth,  and  I  waitched 
him.  I  pumped  him  to  see  if  I  couldn't  get 
him  to  tell  something  about  himself.  But  the 
fellow  was  always  on  his  guard,  and  always  told 
the  same  story.  This  is  what  he  tells :  He  says 
that  his  father  was  Ralph  Brandon  of  Bran- 
don Hall,  Devonshire,  and  that  he  got  very  poor 
— he  was  ruined,  in  fact,  by —  I  beg  your  par- 
don, Sir  John,  but  he  says  it  was  you,  and 
that  you  drove  the  family  away.  They  then 
came  over  to  America,  and  he  got  to  Cincinnati. 
The  old  man,  he  says,  died  before  they  left,  but 
he  won't  tell  what  became  of  the  others.  I  con- 
fess I  believed  it  was  all  a  lie,  and  didn't  think 
there  was  any  such  place  as  Brandon  Hall,  so  I 
determined  to  find  out,  naturally  enough,  Sir 
John,  when  two  millions  were  at  stake." 

Potts  winked. 

"  Well,  I  suddenly  found  my  health  giving  way, 
and  had  to  come  to  Europe.  You  see  what  a  del- 
icate creature  I  am!" 

Potts  laughed  with  intense  glee. 

"  And  I  cai  •^  here  after  wandering  about,  try- 
ing to  find  j'  I  heard  at  last  that  there  was  a 
place  that  r  ^ed  to  be  Brandon  Hall,  though  most 
people  call  it  Potts  Hall.  Now,  I  thought,  my 
fine  young  man,  I'll  catch  you ;  for  I'll  call  on 
Sir  John  himself  and  ask  him." 

"You  did  right,  Sir,"  said  Potts,  who  had 
tidcen  an  intense  interest  in  this  narrative.  "  I'm 
the  very  man  you  ought  to  have  come  to.  I  can 
tell  you  all  you  want.  This  Brandon  it  a  miser- 
able swindler." 

"  Good !    I  thought  so.     Y'ouTl  give  me  that, 


Sir  John,  over  your  ohti  name,  will  you  ?"  cried 
Brandon,  in  great  apparent  excitement. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  said  Potts,  "and  a  good 
deal  more.  But  tell  me,  first,  what  that  young 
devil  said  as  to  how  he  got  to  Cincinnati  ?  Uow 
did  he  find  his  way  there  ?" 

"  He  would  never  tell." 

"  What  became  of  his  mother  and  sister?" 

"He  wouldn't  say." 

"  All  I  know,"  said  Potts,  "  is  this,  I  got  of- 
ficial  information  that  they  all  died  at  Queltcc. " 

Brandon  looked  suddenly  at  the  floor  and 
gasped.     In  a  moment  he  had  recovered. 

"Curse  him  !  then  this  fellow  is  an  impostor?  ' 

"No,"  said  Potts,  "he  must  have  e.scaj)ed. 
It's  |K)8sible.  There  was  some  confusion  at  (Que- 
bec about  names." 

"Then  his  name  may  really  be  Frank  Bran- 
don ?" 

"It  must  be,"  said  Potts.  "Anyhow,  the 
others  are  all  right." 

"Are  what?" 

"All  right;  dead  you  know.  That's  why  he 
don't  like  to  tell  you  aljout  them." 

"  Well,  now,  Sir  John,  could  you  tell  me  what 
you  know  about  this  young  man,  since  you  think 
he  must  be  the  same  one?" 

"  I  know  he  must  be,  and  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  him  and  the  whole  cursed  lot.  In  the 
first  place,"  continued  Potts,  clearing  his  throat, 
"old  Brandon  was  one  of  the  cursedest  old  fools 
that  ever  lived.  He  was  very  well  oft"  but  want- 
ed to  get  richer,  and  so  he  speculated  in  a  tin 
mine  in  Cornwall.  I  was  actjuainted  with  him 
at  the  time  and  used  to  resjiect  him.  He  per- 
suaded me — I  was  always  oii-handed  about  mon- 
ey, and  a  careless,  easy  fellow — he  persuaded  ipe 
to  invest  in  it  also.  I  did  so,  but  at  the  end  of 
a  few  years  I  found  out  that  the  tin  mine  was  a 
rotten  concern,  and  sold  out.  I  sold  at  a  very 
high  price,  for  people  believed  it  was  a  splendid 
property.  After  this  I  found  another  mine  and 
made  money  hand  over  fist.  I  warned  old  Bran- 
don, and  so  did  every  body,  but  he  didn't  care  a 
fig  for  what  we  said,  and  finally,  one  fine  morn- 
ing, he  waked  up  and  found  himself  ruined. 

"  He  was  more  utterly  ruined  than  any  man  I 
ever  knew  of,  and  all  his  estates  were  sold.  I 
had  made  some  money,  few  others  in  the  county 
had  any  ready  cash,  the  sale  was  forced,  and  I 
bought  the  whole  establishment  at  a  remarkably 
low  figure.  I  got  old  Brandy — Brandy  was  a 
nickname  I  gave  the  old  fellow — I  got  him  a 
house  in  the  village,  and  supported  him  for  a 
while  with  his  wife  and  daughter  and  his  great 
lubberly  boy.  I  soon  found  out  what  vipers  they 
were.  They  all  turned  against  their  benefactor, 
and  dared  to  say  that  I  had  ruined  their  father. 
In  fact,  my  only  fault  was  buying  the  place,  and 
that  was  an  advantage  to  old  Brandy  rather  than 
an  injury.  It  shows,  though,  what  human  nature 
is. 

"  They  all  got  sick  at  last,  and  as  they  had  no 
one  to  nurse  them,  I  very  considerately  sent  them 
all  to  the  alms-house,  where  they  had  good  beds, 
good  attendance,  and  plenty  to  eat  and  drink. 
No  matter  what  I  did  for  them  they  abused  me. 
They  reviled  me  for  sending  them  to  a  comfort- 
able hqme,  and  old  Brandy  was  the  worst  of  all. 
I  used  to  go  and  visit  him  two  or  three  times  a 
day,  and  he  always  cursed  me.  Old  Brandy  did 
get  awfully  profane,  that's  a  fact.     The  reason 


84 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


WM  his  infernal  pride.  Loolc  at  me,  now  !  I'm 
not  proud.  I'ut  me  in  the  alms-houte,  and  would 
I  cune  vou  ?     I  hope  not. 

"  At  Ia«t  old  Brandy  died,  and  of  coune  I  had 
to  looli  out  for  the  fnniily.  They  neemwl  thrown 
on  my  hand«,  you  Itnow,  and  I  wan  t<K)  good-na- 
tured to  let  them  nutfer,  although  they  treated  me 
BO  ahominablv.  The  best  thing  I  could  think  of 
was  to  ship  them  all  olf  to  AmericH,  where  thev 
could  all  get  rich.    So  I  took  them  to  Liverpool  ' 

"Did  they  want  to  go ?  ' 

"They  didn't  Heem  to  hiivo  nn  idea  in  their 
headM.  They  looked  and  actud  just  like  three 
bom  fools." 

"Strange!" 

"  I  let  ft  friend  of  mine  see  about  them,  ns  I 
had  considerable  to  do,  and  he  got  them  a  i>&a- 
sage." 

"  I  suppose  you  paid  their  wnv  out." 

"I  did.  Sir,"  said  Potts,  with  an  air  of  mu- 
nificence; "but,  between  you  and  me,  it  didn't 
cost  much." 

"  I  should  think  it  must  have  cost  a  consider- 
able sum." 

'tJhno!  Clark  saw  to  that.  Clark  got  them 
places  as  steerage  passengers. " 

"  Young  Brandon  told  me  once  that  he  came 
out  as  cabin  passenger." 

"  That's  his  cursed  pride.  He  went  out  in  the 
steerage,  and  a  devilish  hard  time  he  had  too. " 

"Why?" 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  little  crowded,  I  think !  There 
were  six  hundred  emigrants  on  board  the  Tecum- 
seh—" 

"The  what?" 

"The  Tecumseh.  Clark  did  that  business 
neatly.  Each  passenger  had  to  take  his  own 
provisions,  so  he  supplied  them  with  a  lot.  Now 
what  do  you  think  he  gave  them  ?" 

"I  can't  imagine." 

"  He  bought  them  some  damaged  bread  nt  one 
quarter  the  U8u;il  i>rice.  It  was  all  mouldy,  you 
know,"  said  Potrs,  trying  to  make  Brandon  see 
the  joke.  "  I  declare  ("lark  and  I  roared  over 
it  for  a  couple  of  months,  thinking  how  surprise! 
they  must  have  been  when  they  sat  down  to  eat 
their  first  dinner." 

"That  was  very  neat,"  rejoined  Brandon. 

"They  were  all  sick  when  they  left,"  said 
Potts ;  "  but  before  they  got  to  Quebec  they 
were  sicker,  I'll  bet." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  ship-fever  ?"  said  Potts, 
in  a  low  voice  which  sent  a  sharp  thrill  through 
every  fibre  of  Brandon's  being.  He  could  only 
nod  his  head. 

"  Well,  the  Tecumseh,  with  her  six  hundred 
passengers,  afforded  an  uncommon  fine  field  for 
the  ship-fever.  That's  what  1  was  going  to  ob- 
83r>'e.  They  had  a  great  time  at  Quebec  last 
summer ;  but  it  was  unanimously  voted  that  the 
Tecumseh  was  the  worst  ship  of  the  lot.  I  sent 
out  an  agent  to  see  what  had  become  of  my  three 
friends,  and  he  came  back  and  told  me  all.  He 
said  that  about  four  hundred  of  the  Tecumseh's 
passengers  died  during  the  voyage,  and  ever  so 
many,  more  after  landing.  He  obtained  a  list  of 
the  dead  from  the  quarantine  records,  and  among 
them  were  those  of  these  three  youthful  Brandons. 
Yes,  they  joined  old  Cognac  pretty  soon — lovely 
and  pleasant  in  their  lives,  and  in  death  not  di- 
vided.    But  this  young  devil  that  you  speak  of 


must  have  eicaped.  T  dare  say  he  did,  for  th« 
confusion  was  awfid." 

"  liut  couldn't  there  have  l>een  another  son  ?" 

"Oh  no.  There  was  another  son,  the  eldest, 
the  worst  of  the  whole  h>t,  so  infernally  bad  that 
even  old  Brandy  himself  couldn't  stand  it,  hut 
]>arked  him  off  to  Botany  Bay.  It's  well  he  went 
of  his  own  accord,  for  if  he  hadn't  the  law  would 
have  sent  him  there  at  last  transported  for  life." 

"  Perhaps  this  man  is  the  same  one." 

"Oh  no.     This  eldest  Brandy  is  dead." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"  Certain — best  authority.  A  business  fiiend 
of  mine  wa.s  in  the  same  ship  with  him.  Brandy 
was  coming  home  to  see  his  friends.  He  fell 
overboard  and  my  friend  saw  him  drown.  It 
was  in  the  Indian  Ocean." 

"  When  was  that  ?" 

"  Last  September." 

"Oh,  then  this  one  must  be  the  other  of 
course!" 

"  No  doubt  of  that,  I  think,"  said  Potts,  cheer- 
ily- 

Brandon  rose.      "I  feel  much  obliged.  Sir 

John,"  said  he,  stiffly,  and  with  his  usual  nasal 
tone,  "for  your  kindness.  This  is  just  what  I 
want.  I'll  put  a  stop  to  my  young  man's  game. 
It's  worth  coming  to  England  to  find  out  this." 

"  Well,  when  you  walk  him  out  of  your  office, 
give  him  my  respects  and  tell  him  I'd  be  very 
happy  to  see  him.  For  I  would,  you  know.  I 
really  would." 

"  Ml  tell  him  so,"  said  Brandon,  "and  if  he 
is  alive  perhaps  he'll  come  here." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  roared  Potts. 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  Brandon,  and  pretend- 
ing not  to  see  Potts's  outstretched  hand,  he  bowed 
and  left.  He  walked  rapidly  down  the  avenue. 
He  felt  stifled.  The  horrors  that  had  been  re- 
vealed to  him  had  been  but  in  part  anticipated. 
Could  there  be  any  thing  worse? 

He  left  the  gates  and  walked  quickly  away,  he 
knew  not  where.  Turning  into  a  by-path  he  went 
up  a  hill  and  finally  sat  down.  Brandon  Hall 
lay  not  far  away.  In  front  was  the  village  and 
the  sea  beyond  it.  All  the  time  there  was  but 
one  train  of  thoughts  in  his  mind.  His  wrongs 
took  shape  and  framed  themselves  into  a  few 
sharply  defined  ideas.  He  muttered  to  himself 
over  and  over  the  things  that  were  in  his  mind : 
"Myself  disinherited  and  exiled!  My  father 
ruined  and  broken-hearted !  My  father  killed ! 
My  mother,  brother,  and  sister  banished,  staned, 
and  murdered !" 

He,  too,  as  far  as  Potts's  will  was  concerned, 
had  been  slain.  He  was  alone  and  had  no  hope 
that  any  of  his  family  could  survive.  Now,  as  he 
sat  there  alone,  he  needed  to  make  his  plans  for 
the  future.  One  thing  stood  out  prominently  be- 
fore him,  which  was  that  he  must  go  immediate- 
ly to  Quebec  to  find  out  finally  and  absolutely  the 
fate  of  the  family. 

Then  could  any  thing  else  be  done  in  En- 
gland? He  thought  over  the  names  of  those 
who  had  been  the  most  intimate  friends  of  his  fa- 
ther— Thornton,  Langhetti,  Despard.  Thornton 
had  neglected  his  father  in  his  hour  of  need.  He 
had  merely  sent  a  clerk  to  make  inquiries  after 
all  was  over.  The  elder  Langhetti,  Brandon 
knew,  was  dead.  Where  were  the  others?  None 
of  them,  at  any  rate,  had  interfered. 

There  remained  the  family  of  Despard.    Bran- 


CORD  AND  CREE.se. 


Bi 


linn  wu  aware  that  the  Colonel  had  a  brother  in 
the  army,  but  where  he  was  he  knew  not  nor 
did  lie  care.  If  he  chute  to  Untk  in  the  army 
register  he  might  very  easily  find  out ;  but  why 
Rhnuld  he  ?  lie  had  never  known  or  heard  much 
of  him  in  any  way. 

There  remained  Courtenay  Despard,  the  son 
of  Lionel,  he  to  whom  the  MS.  of  the  dead 
might  be  considered  after  all  as  chiefly  devolv- 
ing. Of  liim  Hrundon  knew  nbHoluteiy  nothing, 
not  even  wiietiier  he  was  alive  or  dead. 

For  n  time  he  discussed  the  question  in  his 
mind  whether  it  might  not  l)e  well  to  seek  him 
out  so  as  to  show  him  his  father's  fate  and  gain 
his  co-operation.  Hut  after  a  few  momenta' 
cnnhideration  he  dismissed  this  thought.  Why 
xliDiild  he  seek  his  help  ?  Courtenay  Despard, 
it'  iilive,  might  be  very  unlit  for  the  purpose.  He 
might  be  timid,  or  indittisrent,  or  dull,  or  indolent. 
\Vliy  make  any  advances  to  one  whom  he  did 
not  know  ?  Afterward  it  might  be  well  to  find 
him,  and  see  what  might  be  done  with  or  through 
him ;  but  as  yet  there  could  be  no  reason  what- 
ever why  he  shoidd  take  up  hi«  time  in  search- 
ing for  him  or  in  winning  his  confidence. 

The  end  of  it  all  was  that  he  concluded  what- 
ever he  did  to  do  it  by  himself,  with  no  human 
being  as  his  confidant. 

Only  one  or  two  persons  in  all  the  world  knew 
that  he  was  alive,  and  they  were  not  capable, 
under  any  circumstances,  of  betraying  him.  And 
where  now  was  Beatrice  ?  In  the  power  of  this 
man  whom  Brandon  had  just  left.  I  lad  slie  seen 
him  as  he  came  and  went?  Had  she  '.oard  his 
voice  as  he  spoke  in  that  assumed  tone?  But 
Brandon  found  it  necessaiy  to  crush  down  all 
thoughts  of  her. 

One  thing  gave  him  profound  satisfaction,  and 
this  was  that  Potts  did  not  suspect  him  for  an 
instant.  And  now  how  could  he  deal  with 
Potts?  The  man  had  become  wealthy  and 
powerful.  To  cope  with  him  needed  wealth 
and  power.  How  could  Brandon  obtain  these  ? 
At  the  utmost  he  could  only  count  upon  the  fif- 
teen thousand  pounds  which  Compton  would  re- 
mit. This  would  be  as  nothing  to  help  him 
against  his  enemy.  He  had  written  to  Compton 
that  he  had  fallen  overboard  and  been  picked  up, 
and  had  told  the  same  to  the  London  agents  un- 
der the  strictest  secrecy,  so  as  to  be  able  to  get 
the  money  which  he  needed.  Yet  after  he  got 
it  all,  what  would  be  the  benefit  ?  Pirst  of  all, 
wealth  was  necessary. 

Now  more  than  ever  there  came  to  his  mind 
the  ancestral  letter  which  his  father  had  inclosed 
to  him — the  message  fiom  old  Italph  Brandon  in 
the  treasure-ship.  It  was  a  wild,  mad  ho])e ;  but 
was  it  unattainable  ?  This  he  felt  was  now  the 
one  object  that  lay  before  him ;  this  must  first  be 
sought  after,  and  nothing  else  could  be  attempt- 
ed or  even  thought  of  till  it  had  been  tried.  If 
he  failed,  then  other  things  might  be  considered. 

Sitting  there  on  his  lonely  height,  in  sight  of 
his  ancestral  home,  he  took'  out  his  father's  last 
letter  and  read  it  again,  after  wliich  he  once  more 
read  the  old  message  from  the  treasure-ship : 

"  One  league  due  northe  of  a  smalle  islet  northe  of  y« 

Islet  of  Santa  Cruz  northe  of  San  Salvador I 

Rftlphe  Brandon  in  niv  shippe  Phoenix  am  becalmed 

and  surrounded  by  a  iSpanish  fleete  My  shippe 

is  flild  with  spoyle  the  Plunder  of  III  galleons 

wealthe  w""  myghte  parcha?f-e  a  kynpdom — tresure 
eqoalle  to  an  Empyr's  revenue Gold  and  je weles 


In  eonotlMa  ttors 

■hall  fulle  Into  y*  baudi  of  y*  Enemye 


and  God  f.irbydde  that  Itt 
'       ■■  I  there- 


furo  K.tlphe  Brandon  nat  of  mlue  owns  t(i><id  wyj  and 
InteulL*  and  that  <'f  all  my  men  Hlnktliln  phlppt^  rather 

than  be  taken  alyve I  M;nd  IhU  by  my  trusty 

teaman  Peter  Leggit  who  with  IX  otiiern  told«  off  by 
lot  win  trye  to  eiiciiue  In  y*  Uoate  by  nlKbte  -  -  If 
this  cometh  hapiv  Into  y*  handa  of  my  i«"ine  Philip 
let  htm  berebye  kno^ve  that  in  thia  place  in  nil  thia 

trenure  w'  haply  may  yet  be^atherd  from  y* 

rea  y*  Inlet  la  knuwoe  by  III  rockea  that  ue 

pushed  up  like  III  needlea  from  y*  Rnndu 

"  Kalphe  Brandon" 

Five  days  afterward  Brandon,  with  his  Hindu 
servant,  was  sailing  out  of  the  Mersey  liiver  on 
his  way  to  Quebec. 


CHAITER  XIX. 

THE    DEAD  ALIVE. 

It  was  early  in  the  month  of  August  when 
Brandon  visited  the  (luarnntine  station  at  Gosse 
Island,  Quebec.  A  low,  wooden  building  stood 
near  the  landing,  with  a  sign  over  the  door  cbn- 
taining  oidy  the  word  "Office."  To  this  build- 
ing Bratidon  directed  his  steps.  On  entering  he 
saw  oidy  one  clerk  there. 

"Are  you  the  superintendent?"  he  asked,  bow- 
ing courte(>u.sly. 

"  No,"  said  the  clerk.  * '  He  is  in  Quebec  just 
now." 

"Perhaps  you  can  give  me  the  information 
that  I  want." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  have  been  sent  to  inquire  after  some  pas- 
sengers that  came  out  here  last  year. " 

"Oh  3'es,  I  can  tell  all  that  can  be  told,"  said 
the  clerk,  readily.  "We  have  the  registration 
books  here,  and  you  are  at  liberty  to  look  up  any 
names  you  wish.  8tep  this  way,  please."  And 
he  led  the  way  to  an  inner  office. 

"  What  year  did  they  come  out  in  ?"  asked  the 
clerk. 

"Last  year.'' 

"  Last  yejir — an  awful  year  to  look  up.  1840 
— yes,  here  is  the  book  for  that  year — a  year 
which  you  are  aware  was  an  unparalleled  one." 

"I  have  heard  so." 

"  Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  ship  ?" 

"The  Tecumseh." 

"  The  Tfcumseh .'"  exclaimed  the  clerk,  with 
a  startled  look.  "That  is  an  awful  name  in  our 
recoi-ds.  I  am  sorry  you  have  not  another  name 
to  examine,  for  the  Tecumseh  was  the  worst  of 
all." 

Brandon  bowed. 

"The  Tecumseh,"  continued  the  clerk,  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  the  book  as  it  lay  on  the  desk. 
"The  Tecumseh,  from  Liverpool,  sailed  June  2, 
arrived  August  IG.  Here  you  see  the  names  of 
those  who  died  at  sea,  cojjied  from  the  ship's 
books,  and  those  who  died  on  shore.  It  is  a 
frightful  mortality.  Would  vou  like  to  look  over 
the  list  ?" 

Brandon  bowed  and  advanced  to  the  desk. 

"  The  deaths  on  board  ship  show  whether  they 

were  seamen  or  passengers,  and  the  passengers 

are  marked  as  cabin  and  steerage.     But  after 

j  landing  it  was  impossible  to  keep  an  account  of 

I  classes." 

I      Brandon  carefully  ran  his  eye  down  the  long 

list,  and  read  each  name.     Those  for  which  he 

i  looked  did  not  appear.     At  last  he  came  to  the 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


list  of  those  who  had  died  on  shore.    After  read- 
ing a  few  names  his  eye  was  arrested  by  one — 

'^Brandon,  Elizabeth." 

It  was  bis  mother.  He  read  on.  He  soon 
tame  to  another — 

"  Brandon,  Edith."     It  was  his  sister. 

' '  Do  you  find  any  of  the  names  ?"  asked  the 
clerk,  seeing  Brandon  turn  his  head. 

"Yes,"  said  Brandon ;  " this  is  one,"  and  he 
pointed  to  the  last  name.  "But  I  see  a  mark 
opposite  that  name.  What  is  it  ?  '  B'  and  '  A. ' 
What  is  the  meaning  ?" 

' '  Is  that  party  a  relative  of  yours  ?" 

"No,"  said  Brandon. 

"  You  don't  mind  hearing  something  horrible, 
then  r 

"No." 

The  clerk  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Well,  Sir,  those  letters  were  written  hy  the 
late  superintendent.  The  poor  man  is  now  a 
lunatic.     He  was  here  last  year. 

"You  see  this  is  how  it  was :  The  ship-fever 
broke  out.  The  number  of  sick  was  awful,  and 
there  were  no  preparations  for  them  here.  The 
disease  in  some  respects  was  worse  than  cholera, 
and  there  was  nothing  but  confusion.  Veiy  many 
died  from  lack  of  nursing.  But  the  worst  feat- 
urp  of  the  whole  thing  was  the  hurried  buiials. 

"  I  was  not  here  last  year,  and  all  who  were  here 
then  have  left.  But  I've  heard  enough  to  make 
me  sick  with  horror.  You  perhnps  are  aware 
that  in  this  ship-fever  there  sometimes  occurs  a 
total  loss  of  sense,  which  y  ".pt  to  be  mistaken  for 
death?" 

The  clerk  paused.  Brandon  regarded  him 
steadily  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned,  and 
looked  earnestly  at  the  book. 

"The  burials  were  very  hastily  made." 

"Well?' 

"And  it  is  now  believed  that  some  were  bur- 
ied in  a  state  of  trance." 

"Buried  alive?" 

"  Buried  alive !" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Brandon's  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  book.  At  last  he  pointed  to 
the  name  of  Edith  Brandon. 

' '  Then,  I  suppose, "  he  said,  in  a  steady  voice, 
which,  howeAcr,  was  in  a  changed  key,  "these 
letters  '  B'  and  '  A'  are  intended  to  mean  some- 
thing of  tliat  description  ?" 

"  Something  of  that  sort,"  replied  the  clerk. 

Brandon  drew  a  long  breath. 

"But  there  is  no  certainty  about  it  in  this 
particular  case.  I  will  tell  you  how  these  marks 
liappened  to  be  made.  The  clerk  that  was  here 
last  told  me. 

"(hie  morning,  according  to  him,  the  super- 
intendent came  in,  looking  very  much  excited 
and  altered.  He  went  to  this  book,  where  the 
entries  of  burials  had  been  made  on  the  preced- 
ing evening.  This  name  was  third  from  the 
last.  Twelve  had  been  buried.  He  penciled 
these  letters  there  and  left.  People  did  not  no- 
tice him ;  every  body  was  sick  or  busy.  At  List 
in  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  when  the"  "•»  ^e 
to  buiy  a  new  lot,  they  found  the  superintendent 
digging  at  the  grave  the  third  from  the  last. 
They  tried  to  stop  him,  but  he  shouted  and  moan- 
ed alternately  'Buried  alive!'  'Buried  alive!' 
In  fact  they  saw  that  he  was  crazy,  and  had  to 
confine  him  at  once." 

"Did  they  examine  tlie  grave?" 


"Yes.  The  woman  told  my  predecessor  that 
she  and  her  husband — who  did  the  burying — 
had  examined  it,  and  found  the  body  not  only 
dead,  but  corrupt.  80  there's  no  doubt  of  it. 
That  party  must  have  been  dead  at  any  rate." 

"  VVho  was  the  woman  ?" 

"An  old  woman  that  laid  them  out.  She  and 
her  husband  buried  them." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Does  she  stay  here  yet?" 

"No.     She  left  last  year." 

"What  became  of  the  superintendent?" 

"  He  was  taken  home,  but  gre\«^  no  better.  At 
last  he  had  to  be  sent  to  an  asylum.  Some  ex- 
amination was  made  by  the  authorities,  but  no- 
thing ever  came  of  it.  The  papers  made  no  men- 
tion of  the  affair,  and  it  was  hushed  up. " 

Brandon  read  on.  At  last  he  came  to  anoth- 
er name.  It  was  simply  this :  ''^Brandon."  There 
was  a  slight  movement  on  the  clerk's  part  as 
Brandon  came  to  this  name.  "  There  is  no 
Christian  name  here,"  said  Brandon.  "I  sup- 
pose they  did  not  know  it." 

"Weil,"  said  the  clerk,  "there's  something 
peculiar  about  that.  The  farmer  clerk  never 
mentioned  it  to  any  body  but  me.  That  man 
didn't  die  at  all." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Brandon,  who 
could  scarcely  speak  for  the  tremendous  struggle 
between  hope  and  despair  that  was  going  on 
within  him. 

"  It's  a  folse  entry." 

"How?" 

"The  superintendent  wrote  that.  See  the 
handwriting  is  different  from  the  others  '  e  is 
that  of  the  clerk  Avho  made  all  these  enirie.- ;  ti.e 
other  is  the  superintendent's." 

Brandon  looked  and  saw  that  this  was  the  case. 

"  What  was  the  cause  of  that  ?" 

"  The  clerk  told  me  that  after  making  these 
next  fifteen  entries  of  buried  parties — buried  the 
evening  after  these  last  twelve — he  went  away  to 
see  about  something.  When  he  came  back  the 
next  morning  this  name  was  written  in  the  su- 
perintendent's hand.  He  did  not  know  7,hat  to 
think  of  it,  so  he  concluded  to  ask  the  .<u))erin- 
tendent ;  but  in  the  course  of  the  day  lie  heard 
that  he  was  mad  and  in  confinement,  as  I  have 
told  you." 

"T'len  you  mean  that  this  is  not  an  entry  of 
a  deal  1  at  all." 

"Yes.  The  fact  is,  the  superintendent  for 
some  reason  got  it  into  his  head  that  this  Bran- 
don"— and  he  pointed  to  Edith's  name — "had 
been  buried  alive.  He  brooded  over  the  name, 
and  among  other  things  wrote  it  down  here  at 
the  end  of  the  list  for  the  day.  That's  the  way 
in  which  my  predecessor  accounted  lor  it. " 

"  It  is  a  very  natural  one,"  said  Brandon. 

"  Quite  so.  The  clerk  let  it  stand.  You  seo, 
if  he  had  erased  it,  he  might  have  been  over- 
hauled, and  there  would  have  been  a  committee. 
He  was  afiaid  of  that;  so  he  thought  it  better 
to  say  nothing  about  it.  He  woiddn  t  have  told 
me.  only  he  said  that  a  party  came  here  once  for 
a  list  of  all  tlie  dead  of  the  Tennnseh,  and  he 
copied  all  out,  including  this  doubtful  one.  He 
thought  that  he  had  done  wrong,  and  therefore 
told  me,  so  that  if  any  particular  inquiries  were 
ever  made  I  might  know  what  to  say.'' 

"Are  there  manv  mistakes  in  these  records?" 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


87 


STUANGE    FEELING    PASSED   OVER    BRANDON.       HE    STEl'l'IiD    lORWARD. 


"  I  dare  say  there  are  a  good  many  in  the  list  \ 
for  184(i.  There  was  so  much  confusion  that 
names  got  changed,  and  people  died  whose  names 
could  only  be  conjectured  by  knowing  who  had 
recovered.  As  some  of  those  that  recovered  or 
had  not  been  sick  slipped  away  secretly,  of  course' 
there  was  inaccuracy." 

Brandon  had  nothing  more  to  ask.  He  thank- 
ed the  clerk  and  departed. 

There  was  a  faint  hope,  then,  that  Frank  might 
yet  be  alive.  On  h  s  way  up  to  Quebec  he  de- 
liJed  what  to  do.  A?  soon  as  he  arrived  he  in- 
serted an  advertisement  in  the  chief  papers  lO 
the  following  effect : 

notice: 

INFOR:,^.vT10N  of  any  one  of  the  name  of  "  BRAN- 
DON," who  came  out  in  the  ship  Tecum«eh  in  1S4C 


from  Liverpool  to  Quebec,  is  earnestly  desirtd  by 
friends  of  the  family.  A  liberal  reward  will  be  f^iven 
to  t.ny  one  who  can  give  the  above  information.  Ap- 
ply to  Henby  Peters, 

22  Place  d'Armes. 

Brandon  waited  in  Quebec  six  weeks  without 
any  result.  He  then  went  to  Montreal  and  in- 
serted the  same  notice  in  the  papers  there,  nnd 
in  other  towns  in  Canada,  giving  his  Montreal 
address.  After  waiting  five  or  six  weeks  in 
Montreal  he  went  to  Toronto,  and  advertiscjd 
again,  giving  his  new  address.  He  waited  here 
for  some  time,  till  at  length  the  month  of  No- 
vember began  to  draw  to  a  close.  Not  yet  de- 
spondent, he  began  to  foiTn  a  plan  for  advertis- 
ing in  every  dry  of  the  United  States. 

Meanwhile  he  had  received  msiny  communica- 
tions, all  of  which,  however,  were  made  with  th^ 


88 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


vague  hope  of  getting  a  reward.  None  were  at 
all  reliable.  At  length  he  thought  that  it  was 
useless  to  wait  any  longer  in  Canada,  and  con- 
cluded to  go  to  New  York  as  a  centre  of  action. 

He  arrived  in  New  York  at  the  end  of  Decem- 
ber, and  immediately  began  to  insert  his  notices 
in  all  parts  of  the  country,  giving  his  address  at 
the  Astor  House. 

One  day,  as  he  came  in  from  the  street,  he 
was  informed  that  there  was  some  one  in  his 
room  who  wished  to  see  him.  He  went  up  calm- 
ly, thinking  that  it  was  some  new  person  with 
intelligence. 

On  entering  the  room  he  saw  a  man  standing 
by  the  window,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  dressed  in 
coarse  clothes.  The  man  was  very  tall,  broad- 
shouldered,  with  large,  Roman  features,  and  heavy 
beard  and  mustache.  His  face  was  marked  by 
profound  dejection;  he  looked  like  one  whose 
whole  life  had  been  one  long  misfortune.  Louis 
Brandon  had  never  seen  any  face  which  bore  so 
deep  an  impress  of  suffering. 

The  stranger  turned  as  he  came  in  and  looked 
at  him  with  his  sad  eyes  earnestly. 

' ■  Sir,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  which  thrilled  through 
Brandon,  "are  you  Henry  Peters?' 

A  strange  '.eeling  passed  over  Brandon.  He 
stepped  forward. 

"Frank !"  he  cried,  in  a  broken  voice. 

"  Merciful  Heavens!"  cried  the  other.  "Have 
you  too  come  up  from  the  dead  ?     Louis!" 

In  this  meeting  between  the  two  brothers,  aft- 
er so  many  eventful  years  of  separation,  each  had 
much  to  tell.  Each  had  a  story  so  marvelous 
that  the  other  might  have  doubted  it,  had  not 
the  marvels  of  his  o>vn  experience  been  equally 
great.  Frank's  story,  however,  is  the  only  one 
that  the  reader  will  care  to  hear,  and  that  must 
be  reserved  for  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XX. 
Frank's  story. 

"After  you  left,"  said  Frank,  "all  went  to 
confusion.  Potts  lorded  it  with  a  higher  hand 
than  ever,  and  my  father  was  more  than  ever 
infatuated,  and  seemed  to  feel  that  it  was  nec- 
essary to  justify  his  harshness  toward  you  by 
publicly  exhibiting  a  greater  confidence  in  Potts. 
Like  a  thoroughly  vulgar  and  base  nature,  this 
man  could  not  be  content  with  having  the  power, 
but  loved  to  exhibit  that  power  to  us.  Life  to 
me  for  years  became  one  long  death ;  a  hundred 
times  I  would  have  turned  upon  the  scoundrel 
and  taken  vengeance  for  our  wi'ongs,  but  the 
tears  of  my  mother  forced  me  to  use  self-control. 
You  had  been  driven  otf ;  I  alone  was  left,  and 
she  implored  me  by  my  love  for  her  to  stand  by 
her.  I  wished  her  to  take  her  own  little  property 
and  go  w  ith  me  and  Edith  where  we  might  all 
live  in  seclusion  together;  but  this  she  would 
not  do  for  tear  of  staining  the  proud  Brandon 
name. 

"Potts  grew  worse  and  worse  every  year. 
There  was  a  loathsome  son  of  his  whom  he  used 
to  bring  with  him,  and  my  father  was  infatuated 
enough  to  treat  the  younger  devil  with  the  same 
civility  which  he  showed  to  the  elder  one.  Poor 
father!  he  really  believed,  as  he  after>vard  tcM 
me,  tiiat  thei-e   men  were  putting  millions  of 


money  into  'lis  hands,  and  that  he  would  be  the 
Beckford  of  his  generation. 

"After  a  while  another  scoundrel,  called 
Clark,  appeared,  who  was  simply  the  counteqjart 
of  Potts.  (Jf  this  man  something  verj-  singular 
was  soon  made  known  tr  me. 

"  One  day  I  was  strolling  through  the  grounds 
when  suddenly,  as  I  passed  through  a  grove 
which  stood  by  a  fish-pond,  I  heard  voices  and 
saw  the  t^vo  men  I  hated  most  of  all  on  earth 
standing  near  me.  They  were  both  naked. 
They  had  the  audacity  to  go  bathing  in  the  fish- 
pond. Clark  had  his  back  turned  toward  me, 
and  I  saw  on  it,  below  the  neck,  three  marks, 
fiery  red,  as  though  they  had  been  made  by  a 
brand.  They  were  these ;"  and  taking  a  pencil, 
Frank  made  the  following  mni  ks : 


+ 


Louis  looked  at  this  with  intense  excitement. 

'  You  have  been  in  New  South  Wales,"  said 
Frank,  "and  perhaps  know  whether  it  is  true 
or  not  that  these  are  brands  on  convicts  ?" 

"  It  is  true,  and  on  convicts  of  the  very  worst 
khid."      ' 

"  Do  vou  know  what  they  mean  ?" 

"Yes"" 

"What?" 

"Only  the  worst  are  branded  with  a  single 
mark,  so  you  may  imagine  what  a  triple  mark 
indicates.  But  I  will  tell  you  the  meaning  of 
each.  The  first  (  ,  "V  )  is  the  king's  mark  put  on 
those  who  are  totaLy  irreclaimable  and  insubor- 
dinate. The  second  (  R,  )  means  runawx^ ,  and 
is  put  on  those  who  have  attempted  to  escape. 
The  third  (-f-)  indicates  a  murderous  attack  on 
the  guards.  When  they  are  not  hung,  they  are 
branded  with  this  mark ;  and  those  who  are 
branded  in  this  way  are  condemned  to  hard 
work,  in  chains,  for  life." 

"That's  about  what  I  supposed,"  said  Frank, 
quietly,  "  only  of  course  you  are  more  particular. 
After  seeing  this  I  told  my  father.  He  refused 
to  beueve  me.  I  determined  to  bring  matters 
to  a  crisis,  and  charged  Potts,  in  my  father's 
presence,  with  associating  with  a  branded  felon. 
I'otts  at  once  turned  upon  me  and  appealed  to 
my  father's  sense  of  justice.  He  accused  me  of 
being  so  far  carried  away  by  prejudice  as  not  to 
hesitate  to  invent  a  foul  slander  against  an  hon- 
est man.  He  said  that  Clark  would  be  willing 
10  be  put  to  any  test ;  he  coidd  not,  however,  ask 
iiim  to  expose  himself — it  was  too  outrageous, 
but  would  simply  assert  that  my  charge  was 
fa'se. 

' '  My  father  as  usual  believed  eveiy  word  and 
ga\e  me  a  stern  reiJiimand.     Louis,  in  the  pres- 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


8» 


ence  of  my  mother  and  sister  I  cursed  my  father 
on  that  day.  Poor  man !  the  blow  soon  fell.  It 
was  in  1845  that  the  crash  came.  I  have  not  the 
heart  to  go  into  details  now.  I  will  tell  you  from 
time  to  time  hereafter.  It  is  enough  to  say  that 
c.verv  -■•inny  was  lost.  We  had  to  leave  the  Hall 
and    jok  a  little  cottage  in  the  village. 

'•AH  our  friends  and  acquaintances  stood 
iloof.  My  fathers  oldest  friends  never  came 
near  him.  Old  Langhetti  was  dead.  His  son 
icnew  nothing  abont  this.  I  will  tell  you  more  of 
tiim  presently. 

"  Colonel  Lionel  Despard  w.<is  dead.  His  son, 
Courtenay,  was  ignorant  of  all  this,  and  was  away 
in  the  North  of  England.  'I'liere  was  Thornton, 
and  I  can't  account  for  liis  inaction.  He  mar- 
ried Langhetti's  daughter  too.  '1  hat  is  a  mys- 
tery."' 

"They  are  all  false,  Frank." 

Frank  looked  up  with  something  like  a  smile. 

"  No,  not  aU ;  wait  till  you  hear  me  through." 

Frank  drew  a  long  breath.  "We  got  sick 
there,  and  Potts  had  us  taken  to  the  alms-house. 
There  we  all  prayed  for  death,  but  only  my  fa- 
ther's prayer  was  heard.  He  died  of  a  broken 
heart.     The  rest  of  us  lived  on. 

"Scarcely  had  my  father  been  buried  when 
Potts  came  to  take  us  away.  He  insisted  that 
we  should  leave  the  cotmtry,  and  offered  to  pay 
our  way  to  America.  We  were  all  indifferent ; 
we  were  paralyzed  by  grief.  The  alms-house 
was  not  a  place  that  we  could  cling  to,  so  we 
lfc„  ourselves  drift,  and  allowed  Potts  to  send  us 
wherever  he  wished.  We  did  not  even  hojje  for 
any  thing  better.  We  only  hoped  that  some- 
where or  other  we  might  all  die.  What  else 
could  we  do?  What  else  could  I  do?  There 
was  no  friend  to  whom  I  could  look:  and  if  1 
ever  thought  of  any  thing,  it  was  that  Anieiica 
might  possibly  afibrd  us  a  chance  to  get  a  li\ing 
till  death  came. 

"  So  we  allowed  ourselves  to  be  sent  wherever 
Potts  chose,  since  it  could  not  possibly  make 
things  worse  than  they  were.  He  availed  him- 
self of  our  stolid  indifference,  put  us  as  passen- 
gers in  the  steerage  on  Iwaru  of  a  crowded  emi- 
grant ship,  the  2'ecumseli,  and  gave  us  for  our 
piovisions  some  mouldy  bread. 

"  We  simply  lived  and  suffered,  and  were  all 
waiting  for  death,  till  one  day  an  angel  appeared 
who  gave  us  a  short  resjiite,  and  saved  us  for  a 
whil6  from  misery.  This  angel,  Louis,  was  Pa- 
olo, the  son  of  Langhetti. 

"You  look  amazed.  It  was  certainly  an 
amazing  thing  that  he  should  be  on  board  the 
same  ship  with  us.  He  was  in  the  cabin.  Ho 
noticed  our  misery  without  knowing  who  we 
were.  He  came  to  give  us  his  pity  and  hel])  us. 
When  at  last  he  found  out  our  names  he  fell  on 
our  necks,  kissed  us,  and  wept  aloud. 

"  He  gave  up  his  room  in  the  cabin  to  my  mo- 
ther and  sister,  and  slept  and  lived  with  me. 
Most  of  all  he  ciieeied  us  by  the  lofty,  spiritual 
words  with  which  he  bade  us  look  wHh  contempt 
upon  the  troubles  of  lite  and  aspire  affer  im- 
mortal happiness.  Yes,  Louis ;  Langhetti  gave 
us  peace. 

"  There  were  six  hundred  passengers.  The 
plague  broke  out  among  us.  The  deaths  everj- 
day  increaseil,  and  all  were  filled  with  despair. 
At  last  \lie  sailors  themselves  began  to  die. 

''  I  believe  there  was  onlv  one  in  all  tb;  t  ship 
F 


who  preserved  calm  reason  and  stood  without 
fear  during  those  awful  weeks.  That  one  was 
Langhetti.  He  found  the  othcers  of  the  ship 
panic-stricken,  so  he  took  charge  of  the  steerage, 
organized  nurses,  watched  over  every  thing,  en- 
couraged eveiy  body,  and  labored  night  and 
day.  In  the  midst  of  all  I  fell  sick,  and  he 
nursed  me  back  to  life.  Most  of  aU,  that  man 
inspired  fortitude  by  the  hope  that  beamed  in  his 
eyes,  and  by  the  radiancy  of  his  .  .nile.  '  Never 
mind,  Brandon,'  said  he  as  I  lay,  I  thought 
doomed.  '  Death  is  nothing.  Life  goes  on. 
You  will  leave  this  pest-ship  for  a  realm  of  light. 
Keep  up  your  heart,  my  brother  immortal,  and 
praise  God  with  your  latest  breath. ' 

"I  recovered,  and  then  stood  by  his  side  as 
best  I  might.  I  found  that  he  had  never  told 
my  mother  of  my  sickness.  At  last  my  mother 
and  sister  in  the  cabin  fell  sick.  I  heard  of  it 
some  days  after,  and  was  prostrated  again.  I 
grew  better  after  a  time ;  but  just  as  we  reached 
quarantine,  Langhetti,  who  had  kept  himself  up 
thus  far,  gave  out  completely,  and  fell  before 
the  plague." 

"Did  he  die  ?"  asked  Louis,  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"Not  on  ship-board.  He  was  carried  ashore 
senseless.  My  mother  and  sister  were  veiy  low, 
and  were  also  earned  on  shore.  I,  though  weak, 
was  able  to  nurse  them  all.  My  mother  died 
first." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  At  last  Frank  re- 
sumed : 

"My  sister  gradually  recovered;  and  then, 
througii  grief  and  fatigue,  I  fell  sick  for  the  third 
time.  J  felt  it  coming  on.  My  sister  nursed 
me ;  for  a  time  I  thought  I  was  going  to  die. 
'Oh,  Edith,'  I  said,  'when  I  die,  devote  your 
life  while  it  lasts  to  Langhetti,  whom  God  sent 
to  s  in  our  despair.  Save  his  life  even  if  j'ou 
give  up  your  own.' 

"After  that  I  became  delirious,  and  remained 
so  for  a  long  time.  Weeks  passed ;  and  w  hen 
at  last  I  revive'  the  plague  was  stayed,  and  but 
few  sick  were  on  the  island.  My  case  was  a 
lingering  one,  for  this  was  the  third  attack  of 
the  fever.  Why  I  didn't  die  I  can't  understand. 
Thei'e  was  no  attendance.  AH  was  confusion, 
horror,  and  death. 

"When  I  revived  the  first  question  was  after 
Langhetti  and  Edith.  No  one  knew  any  thing 
about  them.  In  the  confusion  we- had  been  sep- 
arated, and  Edith  had  died  alone. " 

'•Who  told  you  that  she  died?"  asked  Louis, 
with  a  troubled  look. 

Frank  looked  at  him  with  p.  face  of  horror. 

"  ('an  vou  bear  what  1  a'a  going  to  sav?" 

"Yes.'"' 

''When  I  was  able  to  move  about  1  went  to 
see  if  any  one  could  tell  me  c'jout  Llitli  and 
Langhetti.  I  heard  an  uw  i'ul  story ;  :hat  the 
superintendent  had  gone  mad  and  had  been 
lound  trying  to  dig  open  a  grave,  saying  tliat 
some  one  was  buried  alive.  Who  do  you  think  ? 
oh,  my  brother !" 

"Speak!" 

"  Edith  Brandon  was  the  name  he  named." 

"Be  calm,  Frank;  I  made  inquiries  m\-self 
at  the  island  registry-oflice.  The  clerk  told  me 
this  story,  but  said  that  the  woman  who  had 
charge  of  the  dead  asserted  that  the  grave  was 
opened,  and  it  was  ascertained  that  absolute  deuth 
had  taken  place  " 


90 


CORD  AND  CRKESE. 


"Alasl"  Baid  Frank,  in  a  voice  of  despair,  "I 
saw  that  woman — the  keeper  of  the  dead-house — 
the  grave-digger's  wife,  ^he  told  ine  this  story, 
but  it  was  with  a  troubled  eye.  I  swore  venge- 
ance on  her  unless  she  told  me  the  truth,  ^^he 
was  alarmed,  and  said  she  would  reveal  all  she 
knew  if  I  swore  to  keep  it  to  myself.  I  swore  it. 
fan  you  bear  to  hear  it,  Louis  ?" 

"iSi^ak!" 

"She  said  only  this:  'When  the  grave  was 
opened  it  was  found  that  Edith  Brandon  had  not 
been  dead  when  she  was  buried.' " 

Louis  groaned,  and,  falling  forward,  buried 
his  head  in  both  his  hands. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  either  of  them  spoke. 
At  last  Louis,  without  lifting  his  head,  said : 

"Goon." 

"When  I  left  the  island  I  went  to  Quebec,  but 
could  not  stay  there.  It  was  too  near  the  place 
of  horror.  I  went  up  the  river,  working  my  way 
as  a  laborer,  to  Montreal.  I  then  sought  for 
work,  and  obtained  emplojTnent  as  porter  in  a 
warehouse.  What  mattered  it  ?  What  was  rank 
or  station  to  me  ?  I  only  wanted  tof  keep  myself 
from  starvation  and  get  a  bed  to  sleep  on  at  niglit. 

"  I  had  no  hope  or  thought  of  any  thing.  The 
horrors  through  which  I  had  passed  were  enough 
to  fill  my  mind.  Yet  above  them  all  one  horror 
was  predominant,  and  never  through  the  days 
and  nights  that  have  since  elapsed  has  my  soul 
ceased  to  quiver  at  the  echo  of  two  terrible  words 
which  have  never  ceased  to  ring  through  my 
brain — '  Buried  alive !' 

"I  lived  on  in  Montreal,  under  an  assumed 
name,  as  a  common  porter,  and  might  have  been 
i  iving  there  yet ;  but  one  day  as  I  came  in  I  heard 
the  name  of '  Brandon.'  Two  of  the  clerks  who 
v.ere  discussing  the  news  in  the  morning  paper 
hapi)ened  to  speak  of  an  advertisement  which  had 
Icng  been  in  the  papers  in  all  parts  of  Canada. 
It  was  for  information  about  the  Brandon  family. 

"  I  read  the  notice.  It  seemed  to  me  at  first 
that  Potts  was  still  trj'ing  to  get  control  of  us, 
but  a  moment's  reflection  showed  that  to  be  im- 
probable. Then  the  mention  of  '  the  friends  of 
the  family'  made  me  think  of  Langhetti.  I  con- 
cluded that  he  had  escaped  death  and  was  trjing 
to  find  me  out. 

'  I  went  to  Toronto,  and  found  that  you  had 
gonj  to  New  York.  I  hr d  saved  much  of  my 
wages,  and  was  able  to  come  here.  I  expected 
Lan^jhetti,  but  found  you. " 

"  Why  did  you  not  think  that  it  might  be 
me?' 

"Because  I  heard  a  threat  of  Potrs  about  you, 
and  took  it  for  granted  that  he  would  sucked  in 
cany  ng  it  out." 

"  ^Vhat  was  the  threat  ?" 

"lie  found  out  somehow  that  my  father  had 
written  a  letter  to  you.  I  suppose  they  told  him 
so  at  the  village  post-office.  One  day  when  I.o 
was  in  the  room  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  alluding 
to  the  let ->r,  'I'll  uncork  that  young  Brandy- 
flask  b.jfor,    ong  ' 

"Well — the  nvj.  ;  of  my  death  appeared  in 
the  Enjjlish  papers.' 

Frank  looked  earnestly  at  him. 

"Anl  I  accept  it,  and  go  under  an  assumed 
name." 

"So  do  I.     It  is  better." 

"  Yoi .  thought  Langhetti  alive.  Dc  you  think 
he  is i'' 


"  I  do  not  think  so  now." 

"Why  not?" 

'•The  ettbrts  which  he  made  were  enough  to 
kill  anv  man  without  the  plague.  He  must  have 
died."' 

After  hearing  Frank's  story  I^ouis  gave  a  full 
account  of  his  own  adventures,  omitting,  how- 
ever, all  mention  of  Beatrice.  That  was  some- 
thing for  his  own  heart,  and  not  for  anoAier's  ear. 

"  Have  you  the  letter  and  MS.  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Let  me  read  them." 

Louis  took  the  treasures  and  handed  them  to 
Frank.     He  read  them  in  silence. 

"  Is  Cato  with  you  •  ot?' 

"Yes." 

"It  is  well." 

"And  now,  Frank,"  said  Louis,  "you  have 
someihing  at  last  to  live  for." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Vengeance !"  cried  Louis,  with  burning  ey". 

"Vengeance!"  repeated  Frank,  without  emo- 
tion— '•  Vengeance !  What  is  that  to  me  ?  Do 
you  hope  to  give  peace  to  your  own  heart  by  in- 
flicting sutt'ering  on  our  enemies?  What  can 
they  possibly  sufl'er  that  can  atone  for  what  they 
have  inflicted  ?  All  that  they  can  feel  is  as  no- 
thing compared  with  what  we  have  felt.  Venge- 
ance!" he  repeated,  musingly;  "and  what  sort 
of  vengeance?  Would  you  kill  them?  What 
would  that  effect?  Would  he  be  more  misera- 
ble than  he  is  ?  Or  would  you  feel  any  greater 
Iiapjjiness?  Or  do  you  mean  something  more 
far-reaching  than  death  ?" 

"Death,"  said  Louis,  "is  nothing  for  such 
crimes  as  his." 

"  You  want  to  inflict  suffering,  then,  and  yoa 
ask  me.  Well,  after  all,  do  I  want  him  to  suf- 
fer? Dol  cfeforthisman's  sufterings?  What 
are  they  or  what  can  they  be  to  me  ?  He  stands 
on  his  own  plane,  far  beneath  me ;  he  is  a  coarse 
animal,  who  can,  porhaps,  sufl'er  from  nothing  but 
physical  pain.  Should  I  inflict  thui  jn  him,  what 
good  would  it  be  to  me  ?  And  yet  there  is  none 
other  that  I  can  inflict." 

"  Langhetti  must  have  transformed  you,"  said 
Louis,  "with  his  spiritual  ideas." 

"Langhetti;  or  perhaps  the  fact  that  I  three 
times  gaze  J  upon  the  face  of  death  and  stood 
upon  the  threshold  of  that  place  where  dwells 
the  Infinite  Mysteiy.  So  when  you  speak  of 
nere  vengeance  my  heart  does  not  respond.  But 
there  is  still  something  which  may  make  a  pur- 
pose as  strong  as  vengeance. " 

"Name  it." 

"The  sense  of  intolerable  wrong ! "  cried  Frank, 
in  vehement  tones ;  "  the  presence  of  that  foul 
pair  in  the  home  of  our  ancestors,  our  own  exile, 
and  all  the  sufterings  of  the  past !  Do  ',  ov  ihink 
that  I  can  endure  this  ?" 

"No — you  must  have  vengeance." 

"No;  not  vengeance." 

"What  then?" 

"Justice!"  cried  Frank,  starting  to  his  feet. 
' '  Justice — strict,  stern,  merciless ;  and  that  jus- 
tice means  to  me  all  that  you  mean  by  vengeance. 
Let  us  make  war  against  him  from  this  time  fortli 
while  life  lasts ;  let  us  cast  him  out  and  get  back 
our  own ;  let  us  put  him  into  the  power  of  tho 
law,  and  let  that  take  satisfaction  on  him  for  his 
crimes ;  let  us  cast  him  out  and  fling  him  from 
us  to  that  power  which  can  fittingly  condemn.    I 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


91 


(lospiso  him,  and  despise  liis  suflerings.  His 
ngony  will  give  me  no  gratification.  The  nn- 
;,iiish  that  a  base  nature  can  suffer  is  only  dis- 
gusting to  me — he  suffers  only  out  of  liis  base- 
ness. To  me,  and  with  a  thing  like  that,  venge- 
ance is  impossible,  and  justice  is  enough." 

"At  any  rate  you  will  have  a  purpose,  and 
your  puqjose  points  to  the  same  result  as  mine. " 

"But  how  is  this  possible  ?"  said  Frank.  "  He 
is  strong,  and  we  are  weak.    What  can  we  do  ?" 

"We  can  try,"  said  Louis.  "  You  are  ready 
to  undertake  any  thing.  You  do  not  value  your 
life.  There  is  one  thing  which  is  before  us.  It 
is  desperate — it  is  almost  hopeless ;  but  we  are 
lioth  ready  to  try  it." 

"What  is  that?" 

"The  message  from  the  dead,"  said  Louis, 
spreading  before  Frank  that  letter  from  the  treas- 
ure-ship which  he  himself  had  so  often  read. 

"And  are  you  going  to  try  this?" 

"  Yes." 

"How?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  must  first  find  out  the  re- 
sources of  science." 

"  Have  vou  Cato  yet?" 

"Yes."' 

"Can  he  dive?" 

"He  was  brought  up  on  the  Malabar  coast, 
among  the  pearl-fishers,  and  can  remain  under 
water  for  an  incredible  space  of  time.  But  I 
hope  to  find  means  which  will  enable  me  myself 
to  go  down  under  the  ocean  depths.  This  will 
be  our  oljject  now.  If  it  succeeds,  then  we  can 
gain  our  purpose;  if  not,  we  must  think  of  some- 
thing else." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE   DIVING   BUSINESS. 

In  a  little  street  that  runs  from  Broadway,  not 
far  from  Wall  Street,  there  was  a  low  door\vay 
with  dingy  panes  of  glass,  over  which  was  a  sign 
which  bore  the  following  letters,  somewhat  faded : 

BROCTiEa^  &    CO., 

CONTRACTORS. 

About  a  month  after  his  arrival  at  New  York 
Brandon  entered  this  place  and  walked  up  to  the 
desk,  where  a  stout,  thick-set  man  was  sitting, 
with  his  chin  on  his  hands  and  his  elbows  on  the 
desk  before  him. 

"Mr.  Brocket?"  said  Brandon,  inquiringly. 

"Yes,  Sir,"  answered  the  other,  descending 
from  his  stool  and  stejiping  fonvard  toward  Bran- 
don, behind  a  low  table  which  stood  by  the  desk. 

"I  am  told  that  you  undertake  contracts  for 
raising  sunken  vessels  ?" 

"  We  are  in  that  line  of  business." 

"  Y'ou  have  to  make  use  of  diving  apparatus  ?" 

"Yes." 

"I  understand  that  you  have  gone  into  this 
busine's  to  a  larger  extent  than  any  one  in  Amer- 
ica ?■' 

"  Yes,  Sir," said  Brocket,  modestly.  "I  tliink 
we  do  the  leading  business  in  that  line." 

"I  will  tell  you  frankly  my  object  in  calling 
upon  you.  I  have  just  come  from  the  East  In- 
dies for  tlie  purpose  of  organizing  a  systematic 
plan  for  the  pearl  fisheries.  Y^ou  are  aware  hat 
out  there  they  still  cling  to  the  old  fashion  of 


diving,  which  was  begun  three  ihousand  years 
ago.  I  wish  to  see  if  1  can  not  bring  science  to 
bear  upon  it,  so  as  to  raise  the  j>earl-oyster8  in 
larger  quantities." 

"That's  a  good  idea  of  yours,"  remarked 
Mr.  Brocket,  thoughtfully. 

"I  came  to  you  to  see  if  you  could  inform  me 
whether  it  would  be  practicable  or  not." 

"Terfectly  so,"  said  Brocket. 

"Do  you  work  with  the  diving-bell  in  your 
business  or  with  armor  ?" 

"  With  both.  We  use  the  diving-bell  for  sta- 
tionary purposes;  but  when  it  is  necessary  to 
move  about  we  employ  armor. " 

"  Is  the  armor  adapted  to  give  a  man  any  free' 
dom  of  movement  T 

"The  armor  is  far  better  than  the  bell.  The 
amior  is  so  perfect  now  that  a  practiced  hand  can 
move  about  under  water  with  a  freedom  that  is 
surprising.  My  men  go  down  to  examine  sunk- 
en ships.  They  go  in  and  out  and  all  through 
them.  Sometimes  this  is  the  most  profitable  part 
of  our  business." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Why,  because  there  is  often  money  or  valu- 
able articles  on  board,  ..nd  these  always  are  ours. 
See,"  said  Brocket,  opening  a  drawer  and  taking 
out  some  silver  coin,  "here  is  some  money  that 
we  foiuid  in  an  old  Dutch  vessel  that  was  sunk 
up  the  Hudson  a  hundred  years  ago.  Our  men 
walked  about  the  bed  of  the  river  till  they  found 
her,  and  in  her  cabin  they  obtained  a  sum  of 
money  that  wou»d  surprise  you — all  old  coin." 

"An  old  Di.tch  vessel!  Do  you  often  find 
vessels  that  ha  er  been  sunk  so  long  ago  ?" 

"Not  often.  But  we  are  always  on  the  look- 
out for  them,"  said  Brocket,  who  had  now  grown 
quite  communicative.  ' '  You  see,  those  old 
ships  always  carried  ready  cash — they  didn't  use 
bank-notes  and  bills  of  exchange.  So  if  you  can 
only  find  one  you're  sure  of  money." 

"  Then  this  would  be  a  good  thing  to  bear  in 
mind  in  our  pearl  enterprises  ?" 

' '  Of  course.  I  should  think  that  out  there 
some  reefs  must  be  full  of  sunken  ships.  They've 
been  sinking  about  those  coasts  ever  since  the 
first  ship  was  buiit." 

"  How  far  down  can  a  diver  go  in  armor?" 

"  Oh,  any  reasonable  depth,  when  the  pressure 
of  *\lQ  water  is  not  too  great.  Some  pain  in  the 
«"Hrs  is  felt  at  first  from  the  compressed  air,  but 
that  is  temporarj-.  Men  can  easily  go  dawn  ;i.s 
far  as  fifteen  or  sixteen  fathoms." 

"  How  long  can  they  stay  down?" 

"In  the  bells,  you  know,  they  go  dwNTi  and 
ai^  pulled  up  only  in  the  middle  of  the  day  and 
at  evening,  -.hen  their  work  is  done. " 

"  IIow  with  the  men  in  armor?" 

"  Oh,  they  can  stand  it  almost  as  well.  They 
come  up  oftener,  though.  'Iliere  is  one  advant- 
age in  the  armor :  a  man  can  fling  ofi'  his  weight 
and  come  up  whenever  he  likes." 

"Have  you  ever  been  down  yourself?" 

"  Oh  yes — oftener  than  any  of  my  men.  I'm 
the  oldest  diver  in  the  country,  I  think.  But  I 
don't  go  down  often  now.  It's  hard  work,  and 
I'm  getting  old." 

"  Is  it  much  harder  than  other  work?" 
"Well,  you  see,  it's  unnatural  sort  of  work, 
and  is  hard  on  the  lungs.     Still,  I  always  was 
healthy.     The  real  reason  why  J  stopped  was  m 
circumstance  that  happened  two  years  ago." 


92 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


" 'WTiat  wns  fh.1t  ?" 

Urocket  drew  a  long  breath,  looked  for  a  mo- 
ment meditatively  at  tlie  Hoor.  mid  then  went  on: 

"Well,  there  happened  to  ho  a  wreck  of  a 
steamer  called  the  Saliulin  down  ott"  the  North 
Carolina  coast,  and  I  thought  I  would  try  her  as 
a  speculation,  for  I  supj)osed  that  there  might  he 
considerable  money  on  board  one  way  or  an- 
other. It  was  a  very  singular  affair.  Only  two 
men  had  escaped ;  it  was  so  sudden.  They  said 
the  vessel  struck  a  rock  at  night  when  the  water 
was  perfectly  still,  and  went  down  in  a  few  min- 
utes, before  the  passengers  could  even  be  awak- 
ened. It  may  seem  hoiTid  to  you,  hut  you  must 
know  that  a  ship-load  of  passengers  is  very  })rof- 
itable,  for  they  all  carry  money.  Besides,  there 
ure  their  trunks,  and  the  clerk's  desk,  and  so  on. 
^o,  this  time,  I  went  down  myself.  The  ship 
lay  on  one  side  of  the  rock  which  had  pierced 
her,  having  floated  off  just  before  sinking ;  and 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  on  board.  After 
walking  about  the  deck  I  went  at  once  into  the 
saloon,  i'ir,"  said  Brocket,  with  an  awful  look 
at  Brandon,  "if  I  should  liVe  for  a  hundred 
years  I  should  never  forget  the  sight  that  I  saw. 
A  hundred  jjassengers  or  more  had  been  on 
board,  and  most  of  them  had  rushed  out  of  their 
state-rooms  as  the  vessel  began  to  sink.  Very 
many  of  them  lay  on  the  floor,  a  frightful  multi- 
tude of  dead. 

"But  there  were  others,"  continued  Brocket, 
'.n  a  lower  tone,  "who  had  chitched  at  jneces  of 
furniture,  at  the  doors,  and  at  the  chairs,  and 
many  of  these  had  held  on  with  such  a  rigid 
clutdi  that  death  itself  had  not  unlocked  it. 
[•ome  were  still  upright,  with  distorted  features, 
and  staring  eyes,  clinging,  with  frantic  faces,  to 
the  nearest  object  that  they  had  seen.  Several 
of  them  stood  around  the  table.  The  most  fright- 
f:d  thing  was  this :  that  they  were  all  staring  at 
the  door. 

"  But  the  worst  one  of  all  was  a  corpse  that 
was  on  the  saloon  table.  The  wretcli  iiad  leap- 
ed theie  in  his  first  mad  impulse,  and  his  hands 
had  clutched  a  brass  bar  that  ran  across.  He 
wai;  facing  the  door ;  his  hands  were  still  cling- 
ing, his  eyes  glared  at  me,  his  jaw  had  fallen. 
The  hideous  face  seemed  grimacing  at  and  threat- 
ening me.  As  I  entered  the  water  was  disturb- 
ed by  my  motion.  An  undulation  set  in  move- 
ment by  my  entrance  passed  through  the  length 
of  the  saloon.  All  the  corpses  swayed  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  stopped  in  horror.  Scarcely  had  I 
stopped  when  the  corpses,  agitated  by  the  motion 
of  the  water  and  swaying,  lost  their  hold ;  their 
fingers  slipped,  and  they  fell  fonvard  simultane- 
ously. Above  all,  that  hideous  figure  on  the  ta- 
ble, as  its  fingers  were  loosened,  in  falling  for- 
ward, seemed  to  take  steps,  with  his  demon  face 
still  staring  at  me.  My  blood  ran  cold.  It 
seemed  to  me  as  though  these  devils  were  all 
rushing  at  me,  led  on  by  that  fiend  on  the  table. 
I  For  the  first  time  in  my  life.  Sir,  I  felt  fear  under 
the  sea.  I  started  back,  and  rushed  out  quaking 
as  though  all  hell  was  behind  me.  When  I  got 
no  to  the  surface  I  could  not  speak.  I  instantly 
l»ft  the  Saladin,  came  home  with  my  men,  and 
have  never  been  down  myself  since." 

A  long  conversatioM  followed  about  the  general 
condition  of  sunken  ships.  Brocket  had  no  fear 
of  rivals  in  business,  and  as  his  interlocutor  did 
not  pretend  to  be  one  he  was  exceedingly  com- 


municative, lie  described  to  him  the  exact 
depth  to  which  a  diver  in  armor  might  safely  go, 
the  longest  time  that  he  could  safely  remain  un- 
der water,  the  rate  of  travel  in  walking  along  a 
smooth  bottom,  and  the  distance  which  one  could 
walk.  He  told  him  how  to  go  on  board  of  a 
wrecked  ship  with  the  least  risk  or  difficulty,  and 
the  best  mode  by  which  to  secure  any  valuables 
which  he  might  find.  At  last  he  became  so  ex- 
ceedingly friendly  that  Brandon  asked  him  if  he 
would  be  willing  to  give  personal  instructions  to 
himself,  hin'mg  that  moiu*y  was  no  object,  and 
that  any  price  would  be  paid. 

At  this  Brocket  laughed.  "  My  dear  Sir,  yon 
take  my  fancy,  for  I  think  I  see  in  you  a  man 
of  the  right  sort.  I  should  be  very  glad  to 
show  any  one  like  you  how  to  go  to  work.  Don't 
mention  money ;  1  have  actually  got  more  now 
than  1  know  what  to  do  with,  and  I'm  thinking 
of  founding  an  asylum  for  the  jjoor.  I'll  sell  you 
any  number  of  suits  of  armor,  if  you  want  them, 
merely  in  the  way  of  business  ;  but  if  I  give  you 
instnictions  it  will  be  merely  because  I  like  to 
oblige  a  man  like  you." 

Brandon  of  course  expressed  all  the  gratitudo 
that  so  generous  an  offer  could  excite. 

"But  the'c's  no  use  trying  just  yet;  wait  till 
the  month  of  May,  and  then  you  can  begin.  You 
have  nerve,  and  1  have  no  doubt  that  you'll  learn 
fast." 

After  this  interview  Brandon  had  many  others. 
To  give  credibility  to  his  j)retended  plan  for  the 
pearl  fisheries,  he  bought  a  dozen  suits  of  diving 
armor  and  various  articles  which  Brocket  assured 
him  that  he  woidd  need.  He  also  brought  Cato 
with  him  one  day,  and  the  Hindu  described  tlie 
plan  which  the  i)earl-divers  pursued  on  the  Mala- 
bar coast.  According  to  Cato  each  diver  had  a 
stono  which  weighed  about  thirty  pounds  tied  to 
his  foot,  and  a  sponge  filled  with  oil  fastened 
around  his  neck.  On  plunging  into  tho  water, 
the  weight  carried  hjm  down.  When  the  diver 
reached  the  bottom  the  oiled  sponge  was  used 
from  time  to  time  to  enable  him  to  breathe  by 
inhaling  the  air  through  the  sponge  apjjlied  to 
his  mouth.  All  this  was  new  to  Brocket.  It 
excited  his  ardor. 

The  month  of  May  at  last  came.  Brocket 
showed  them  a  i>lace  in  the  Hudson,  about  twen- 
ty miles  above  the  city,  where  they  could  prac- 
tice. Under  his  direction  Brandon  put  on  the 
armor  and  went  down.  Frank  worked  the  pumjis 
which  supi)lied  him  with  air,  and  Cato  managed 
the  boat.  The  two  Brandons  learned  their  parts 
rapidly,  and  Louis,  who  had  the  hardest  task, 
improved  so  quickly,  and  caught  the  idea  of  the 
work  so  readily,  that  Brocket  enthusiastically 
assured  him  that  he  was  a  natural-bom  diver. 

All  this  time  Brandon  was  qiueth  making  ar- 
rangements for  a  voyage.  He  gradually  obtained 
every  thing  which  might  by  any  possibility  be  re- 
quired, and  which  he  found  out  by  long  delibera- 
tions with  Frank  and  by  hints  which  he  gained 
by  well-managed  questions  to  Brocket, 

Thus  the  months  of  May  and  June  passed  un- 
til at  length  they  were  ready  to  start. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


93 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    18LKT   OF   SANTA    CRCZ. 

It  was  July  when  Brandon  left  New  York 
for  San.  Salvador. 

He  had  piirchasied  a  bea.itiful  little  schooner, 
which  lio  had  fitted  uj)  like  a  gentleman's  yacht, 
and  storeil  with  all  tlie  ariicle;*  which  might  be 
needed.  In  cruising  abo  it  the  Ualiaina  l«les 
he  intended  to  let  it  be  supposed  that  he  was 
traveling  for  pleasure.  Tr  le,  the  month  of  July 
was  not  the  time  of  the  year  which  pleasure-seek- 
ers would  choose  for  sailin;;  in  the  West  Indies, 
but  of  this  he  did  not  take  much  thought. 

The  way  to  the  Bahama  Isles  was  easy.  They 
stopped  for  a  while  at  Nassau,  and  then  went  to 
San  Salvador. 

The  first  part  of  the  New  World  which  Co- 
lumbus discovered  is  now  but  seldom  visited,  and 
few  inhabitants  are  found  there.  Only  si.\  hun- 
dred people  dwell  upon  it,  and  these  have  in 
general  but  little  intelligence.  On  reaching  this 
place  Brandon  sailed  to  the  harbor  which  Co- 
lumbus entered,  and  made  many  incjuiries  about 
that  immortal  landing.  Traditions  still  survived 
among  the  people,  and  all  were  glad  to  show  the 
rich  Englishman  the  lions  of  the  jilace. 

He  was  thus  enabled  to  make  in([uiries  Avith- 
out  exciting  suspicion  about  the  i>Liiids  lying  to 
the  north.  He  was  informed  that  about  four 
leagues  north  there  was  an  island  nameil  Guahi, 
mid  as  there  was  no  island  known  in  that  direc- 
tion named  Santa  Cruz,  Brandon  thought  that 
tills  might  be  the  one.  He  asked  if  there  were 
(>iiy  small  islets  or  sand -banks  near  there,  but 
no  one  coidd  tell  him.  Having  gained  all  the 
information  that  he  could  he  pursued  his  voy.age. 

In  that  liot  season  there  was  but  little  wiiuf. 
The  seas  were  visited  by  profound  calms  which 
continued  hmg  and  ilindered  navigation  slow  and 
tedious.  Sometimes,  to  prevent  themselves  from 
being  swept  away  by  the  currents,  they  had  to 
cast  anchor.  At  other  times  they  were  forced 
to  keej)  in  close  by  the  shore.  They  waited  till 
the  night  came  on,  and  then,  putting  out  the 
sweeps,  ihey  rowed  the  yacht  slowly  along. 

It  was  the  middle  of  July  before  they  reached 
the  island  of  Guahi,  which  Brandon  thought 
might  be  Santa  Cniz.  If  so,  then  one  league 
due  north  of  this  there  ought  to  be  the  islet  of 
the  Three  Needles.  Upon  the  discovery  of  that 
would  depend  their  fate. 

It  was  evening  when  they  reached  the  south-' 
em  shore  of  Guahi.  Now  was  the  time  when 
all  the  future  depended  upon  the  fact  of  the  ex- 
istence of  an  islet  to  the  north.  That  night  on 
the  south  shore  was  passed  in  deep  anxiety. 
They  rowed  the  vessel  on  with  their  sweeps,  but 
the  island  was  too  large  to  be  passed  in  one 
night.     Morning  came,  and  still  they  rowed. 

The  morning  passed,  and  the  hot  sun  burned 
down  upon  them,  yet  they  still  toiled  on,  seeking 
to  pass  beyond  a  point  which  lay  ahead,  so  as  to 
see  the  open  water  to  the  north.  Gradually  they 
neared  it,  and  the  sea-view  in  front  opened  up 
more  and  more  widely.  There  was  nothing  but 
water.  More  and  more  of  the  view  exposed  it- 
self, until  at  last  the  whole  horizon  was  visible. 
Vet  there  was  no  land  there — no  island — no  sign 
of  those  three  rocks  which  they  longed  so  much 
to  liud. 

A  lijrht  wind  arose  which  enabled  them  to  sail 


over  all  the  space  that  lay  one  league  to  the  north. 
They  sounded  as  they  went,  but  found  only  deep 
water.  They  looked  all  around,  but  found  not 
80  much  as  the  smallest  point  of  land  above  the 
surface  of  the  ocean. 

That  evening  they  cast  anchor  and  went  ashore 
at  the  island  of  Guahi  to  see  if  any  one  knew  of 
other  islands  among  which  might  be  found  one 
named  Santa  Cruz.  Their  disappointment  was 
profound.  Brandon  for  a  while  thought  that 
perhaps  some  other  San  Salvador  was  meant  in 
the  letter.  This  very  idea  had  occuiTed  to  him 
before,  and  he  had  made  himself  acquainted  with 
all  the  places  of  that  name  that  existed.  None 
of  them  seemed,  however,  to  answer  the  require- 
ments of  the  writing.  Some  must  have  gained 
the  name  since ;  others  were  so  situated  that  no 
island  could  be  mentioned  as  lying  to  the  north. 
On  the  whole,  it  seemed  to  liinj  that  this  San 
Salvador  of  Columbus  could  alone  be  mentioned. 
It  was  alluded  to  as  a  well-known  place,  of  w  hich 
particular  descripti(m  was  unnecessary,  and  no 
other  j)lace  at  that  day  had  this  character  except 
the  one  on  which  he  had  decided. 

One  hope  yet  remained,  a  faint  one,  but  still  a 
hope,  and  this  might  yet  be  realized.  It  was 
that  Guahi  was  not  Santa  (.'ruz ;  but  that  some 
other  island  lay  about  here,  which  might  be  con- 
sidered as  north  from  San  Salvador.  This  could 
be  ascertained  here  in  Guahi  better  perhaps  than 
any  where  els-^.     With  this  faint  hope  he  landed. 

Guahi  is  only  a  small  island,  and  there  are  but 
few  inhabitants  upon  it,  who  support  themselves 
jtartly  by  fishing.  In  this  delightful  climate  Ih'ir 
wants  arc  not  numerous,  and  the  rich  soil  pio- 
duces  almost  any  thing  which  they  desire.  The 
fish  aliout  here  are  not  plentiful,  and  what  they 
catch  have  to  be  sought  for  at  a  long  distance  otf. 

'*  Are.there  any  other  islands  near  this  ?"  asked 
Brandon  of  some  people  whom  he  met  on  land- 
ing. 

"Not  very  near." 

"  Which  is  the  nearest?" 

"San  Salvador." 

"  Are  there  any  others  in  about  this  latitude?" 

"  Well,  there  is  a  small  one  about  twelve 
leagues  east.     There  are  no  people  on  it  though." 

"  What  is  its  name?" 

"  Santa  t'ruz." 

Brandons  heart  beat  fast  at  the  sound  of  that 
name.  It  must  be  so.  It  must  be  the  island 
which  he  sought.  It  lay  to  the  narth  of  San 
Salvador,  and  its  name  was  Santa  Cruz. 

"  It  is  not  down  on  the  charts  ?" 

"No.     It  is  only  a  small  islet." 

Another  confirmation,  for  the  message  said 
plainly  an  islet,  whereas  Guahi  was  an  island. 

"How  large  is  it?" 

"Oh,  perhaps  a  mile  or  a  mile  and  a  half 
long." 

"  Is  there  any  other  island  near  it  ?" 

"Idon'tknJw." 

"Have  you  ever  been  there?" 

"No." 

Plainly  no  further  information  could  be  gath- 
ered here.  It  was  enough  to  have  hope  strength- 
ened and  an  additional  chance  for  success.  Bran- 
don obtained  as  iio«ir  as  ])osMble  the  exact  direc- 
tion of  ."^anta  Cruz,  and,  going  back  to  the  yacht, 
took  advantage  of  the  light  breeze  which  still  was 
blowing  and  set  sail. 
,      Night  came  on  very  dark,  but  the  breeze  still 


COIin  AND  CREESE. 


'"AN    ISLAND   COVEKED   WITH   PALM-TREES   LAY   THERE." 


continued  to  send  its  light  breatli,  and  before  this 
the  vessel  gently  glided  on.  Not  a  thing  could 
be  seen  in  that  intense  darkness.  Toward  moiTi- 
ing  Louis  Brandon,  who  had  remained  np  all 
night  in  his  deep  anxiety,  tried  to  pierce  through 
the  gloom  as  he  strained  his  eyes,  and  seemed  as 
though  he  would  force  the  darkness  to  reveal  that 
which  he  sought.  But  the  darkness  gave  no  to- 
ken. 

Not  Columbus  himself,  when  looking  out  over 
these  waters,  gazed  with  greater  eagerness,  nor 
did  his  heart  beat  with  greater  anxiety  of  sus- 
pense, than  that  which  Brandon  felt  as  his  vessel 
glided  slowly  through  the  dark  waters,  the  same 
over  which  Columbus  had  passed,  and  moved 
amidst  the  impenetrable  gloom.  But  the  long 
niglit  of  suspense  glided  by  at  last ;  the  darkness 
faded,  and  the  dawn  came. 

Frank  Brandon,  on  waking  about  sunrise, 
came  up  and  saw  his  brother  looking  ..ith  fixed 
intensity  of  gaze  a'  something  directly  in  front. 
He  turned  to  see  what  it  might  be. 

An  island  covered  with  palm-trees  lay  there. 
Its  extent  wa^  small,  but  it  was  filled  with  the 
rich  verdure  of  the  tropics.  The  gentle  breeze 
rufied  the  waters,  but  did  not  altogether  efface 
the  refle  ;tion  of  that  beautiful  islet. 

Louis  pointed  toward  the  northeast. 


Frank  looked. 

It  seemed  to  be  about  two  miles  avr.y.  It  was 
a  low  sand  island  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long. 
From  its  surface  projected  three  rocks  tiiiu  and 
sharp.  They  were  at  unequal  distances  from 
each  other,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  i4et.  The 
tallest  one  might  have  been  about  twelve  feet  in 
height,  theotliers  eight  and  ten  feef  rcs)iei-tively. 

Louis  and  P'rank  exchanged  one  long  look,  but 
said  not  a  word.     That  look  was  an  elo<|ueKt  one. 

This  then  was  unmistakably  the  place  of  tlieir 
search. 

Tlie  islet  with  the  three  rocks  like  needles  lying 
north  of  Santa  Cruz.  One  league  due  north  of 
this  was  the  spot  where  now  rested  all  tlieir  hope;-. 

The  island  of  Santa  Craz  was,  as  had  been 
told  them,  not  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half  in 
length,  the  sand  island  with  the  needles  lay  about 
two  miles  north  of  it.  On  the  side  of  Santa 
Cruz  which  lay  nearest  to  them  was  a  small  cove 
just  large  enough  for  the  yacht.  Here,  after 
some  delay,  they  were  able  to  enter  and  land. 

The  tall"  trees  that  covered  the  island  rose  over 
beautiful  glades  and  grassy  slopes.  Too  small 
and  too  remote  to  give  support  to  any  number 
.if  inhabitants,  it  had  never  been  touche(l  by  the 
hand  of  man,  but  stood  before  tliem  in  all  that 
pristine  beauty  with  ,vhich  nature  had  first  en- 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


95 


dowed  it.  It  reminded  Brandon  in  some  degree 
of  that  African  island  where  he  had  passed  some 
time  with  Beatrice.  The  recollection  of  this 
brought  over  him  an  intolerable  melancholy,  and 
made  the  very  beauty  of  this  island  painful  to 
him.  Yet  ho|)e  was  now  strong  within  his  heart, 
and  as  he  traversed  its  extent  his  eye  wandered 
about  in  search  of  places  where  he  might  be  able 
to  conceal  the  treasure  that  lay  under  the  scji,  if 
he  were  ever  able  to  recover  it  from  its  present 
place.  The  island  afforded  many  spots  which 
were  well  adapted  to  such  a  purpose. 

In  the  centre  of  the  island  a  i-ock  jutted  up, 
which  was  bald  and  flat  on  its  summit.  (Jn  the 
western  side  it  showed  a  precipi'^e  of  some  forty 
or  fifty  feet  in  height,  and  on  the  eastern  side  it 
de-scended  to  the  water  in  a  steep  slope.  The 
tall  trees  which  grew  all  around  shrouded  it  from 
the  view  of  those  at  sea,  but  allowed  the  sea 
to  be  visible  on  every  side.  Climbing  to  this 
place,  they  saw  something  whicli  showed  them 
that  they  could  not  hope  to  carry  on  any  opera- 
tions for  that  day. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  island,  about  ten 
miles  fi'om  the  shore,  there  lay  a  large  brig  be- 
calmed. It  looked  like  one  of  those  vessels  that 
are  in  the  trade  between  the  United  States  and 
tlie  West  Indies.  As  long  as  that  vessel  was 
in  the  neighborhood  it  would  not  do  even  to 
make  a  beginning,  nor  did  Brandon  care  about 
letting  his  yacht  be  seen.  Whatever  he  did  he 
wished  to  do  secretly. 

The  brig  continued  in  sight  all  day,  and  they 
remained  on  the  island.  Toward  evening  they 
took  the  small  boat  and  rowed  out  to  the  sand- 
bank whicli  they  called  Needle  Islet.  It  was 
merely  a  low  spit  of  sand,  with  these  three  sin- 
gidarly-shaped  rocks  projecting-  upward.  Tliere 
was  nothing  else  whatever  to  be  seen  upon  it. 
The  moon  came  up  r.s  they  stood  there,  and 
tlieir  eyes  wandered  involuntarily  to  the  north, 
to  that  place,  a  league  away,  where  the  treasure 
lay  beneath  the  wateis. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE     OCEAN     DEPTHS. 

The  next  morning  dawned  and  Brandon  hur- 
ried to  the  rock  and  looked  around.  During  tlie 
night  a  slight  wind  had  sprung  up,  and  was  still 
gently  breathing.  Far  over  the  wide  se;i  there 
was  not  a  sail  to  be  seen.  The  brig  had  passed 
away.     They  were  finally  left  to  themselves." 

Now  at  last  the  time  of  trial  had  come.  They 
were  eager  to  make  the  attempt,  and  soon  the 
yacht  was  unmoored,  and  moved  slowly  out  to  sea 
in  the  direction  of  Needle  Island.  A  light  breeze 
still  blew  fitfully,  but  jiromised  at  any  moment  to 
stop ;  yet  while  it  lasted  they  passed  onward  im- 
(ler  its  gentle  impulse,  and  so  gradually  reached 
Needle  Island,  and  went  on  into  the  sea  beyond. 

Uefore  they  had  come  to  the  spot  which  they 
wished  to  attain  the  breeze  had  died  out,  and  they 
were  c(impelied  to  take  to  the  oars.  Although 
e;\ily  in  the  morning  the  sun  was  burning  hot, 
the  work  was  laborious,  and  the  progress  was 
flv)w.  Yet  not  a  murmur  was  heard,  nor  did  a 
single  thought  of  fatigue  enter  the  i.nnds  of  any 
of  tliem.  One  idea  oidy  was  present — one  so 
ovoiwlielming  that  all  lesser  thoughts  and  all  or- 


dinary feelings  were  completely  obliterated.  Aft- 
er two  hours  of  steady  labor  they  at  Itust  reached 
a  place  which  seemed  to  them  to  be  exactly  one 
league  due  north  of  Needle  Islet.  Looking  back 
they  saw  that  the  rocks  on  the  island  seemed  fiom 
this  distance  closer  together,  and  thinner  and 
sharper,  so  that  they  actually  bore  a  greater  re- 
semblance to  needles  from  this  point  than  to  any 
thing  else. 

Here  they  sounded.  The  water  was  fifteen 
fathoms  deep — not  so  great  a  depth  as  they  had 
feared.  Then  they  put  down  the  anchor,  for 
although  there  was  no  wind,  yet  the  yacht  might 
be  caught  in  some  current,  and  drift  gradually 
away  from  the  right  position. 

The  small  boat  had  all  this  time  been  floating 
asteni  with  the  pumping  apparatus  in  it,  so  that 
the  adventurous  diver  might  readily  be  accompa^ 
nied  in  his  search  and  his  wanderings  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea. 

But  there  was  the  prospect  that  this  search 
woidd  be  long  and  arduous,  and  Brandon  was  not 
willing  to  exhaust  himself  too  soon.  He  had  al- 
ready resolved  that  the  first  exploration  should 
be  made  by  Asgeelo.  The  Hindu  had  followed 
Brandon  in  all  his  wanderings  with  that  silent 
submission  and  perlect  devotion  which  is  more 
common  among  Hindus  than  any  other  people. 
He  had  the  air  of  one  who  was  satisfied  with 
obeying  his  master,  and  did  not  ask  the  end  of 
any  commands  which  might  be  given.  He  was 
aware  that  they  were  about  to  e:{i)lore  the  ocean 
depths,  but  showed  no  curiosity  about  the  object 
of  their  search.  It  was  Brandon's  purpose  to 
send  him  down  first  at  different  ])oin  «,  so  that 
he  might  see  if  there  was  any  thing  th  re  which 
looked  like  what  they  sought. 

Asgeelo — orCato,  as  Brandon  commonly  called 
■him — had  made  those  simple  preparations  which 
are  common  among  his  class  —  the  apparatus 
which  the  pearl-divers  have  used  ever  since  peail- 
diving  first  commenced.  Twelve  or  fifteen  stones 
were  in  the  boat,  a  flask  of  oil,  and  a  sponge 
which  was  fastened  around  his  neck.  These 
were  all  that  he  required.  Each  stone  weighed 
about  thirty  pounds.  One  of  these  he  tied  around 
one  foot ;  he  saturated  the  sponge  with  oil,  so  as 
to  use  it  to  inhale  air  beneath  the  water;  and 
then,  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  boat  and  fling- 
ing his  arms  straight  u])  over  Iiis  head,  he  leajied 
into  the  water  and  went  down  feet  foremost. 

[  Over  the  smooth  water  the  ripple?  flowed  from 
the  spot  where  Asgeelo  had  disappeared,  extend- 

'  ing  in  successive  concentric  circles,  and  radiating 

[  in  long  undulations  far  and  wide.     Louis  and 

j  Frank  waited  in  deep  suspense.  Asgeelo  re- 
mained long  beneath  the  water,  but  to  them  the 

I  time  seemed  frightful  in  its  duration.  I'rofound 
anxiety  began  to  mingle  with  the  suspense,  for  fear 

I  lest  the  faithful  servant  in  his  devotion  had  over- 
rated his  powers — lest  the  disuse  of  his  early 
practice  had  weakened  his  skill — lest  the  weight 

'.  bound  to  his  foot  had  dragged  him  down  and 

!  kept  him  there  forever. 

At  last,  when  tV  •'uspense  had  become  intoler- 
able and  the  two  i  aU  already  begun  to  exchange 
glances  almost  ot  despair,  a  plash  was  heard,  and 
Asgeelo  emerged  far  to  the  right.  He  strack  out 
strongly  toward  the  boat,  which  was  at  once  rowed 
toward  him.  In  a  few  minutes  he  \.as  taken  in. 
He  did  not  appear  to  be  much  exhausted. 
He  had  seen  nothing. 


COKD  AND.  CUEKSE. 


\    DARK,    SINEWY    AHJI    EMERGED   FROM    IIENEATII,    ARMED    WITH    1.    LONG,    KEEN    KNIFE. 


Tliey  then  rowed  about  a  hundred  yards  fur- 
ther, and  Asgeelo  prepared  to  descend  once  more. 
He  .'  jueezed  the  oil  out  of  the  sponge  and  rc- 
new(  d  it  again.  But  this  time  he  took  a  knife 
in  his  hand. 

"  What  is  that  for?"  asked  Frank  and  Louis. 

"Sharks!"  answered  Cato,  in  a  terrible  tone. 

At  this  Louis  and  Frank  exchanged  glances. 
Could  they  let-this  devoted  servant  thus  tempt  so 
terrible  a  death? 

"Did  you  see  anv  sharks ?"  asked  Louis. 

"No,  Sahib. ^' 

"  Why  do  you  fear  them,  then  ?" 

"I  don't  fear  them,  Sahib." 

"Why  do  you  take  this  knife?" 

"One  may  come.  Sahib." 

After  some  hesitation  Asgeelo  was  allowed  to 
go.  As  before  he  plunged  into  the  water,  and 
remained  underneath  quite  as  l(jn<; ;  but  now  they 
had  become  familiarized  witli  his  powers  and  the 
suspense  was  not  so  dreadful.  At  the  expiration 
of  the  usual  time  he  reappeai'ed,  and  on  being 
taken  into  the  boat  he  again  announced  that  he 
kid  seen  nothing. 

They  now  rowed  a  luuidred  yards  farther  on 
in  the  same  direction,  toward  the  east,  and  As- 
geelo made  another  descent.  He  came  l)ack  with 
the  same  result. 

It  began  to  grow  discouraging,  but  Asgeelo 
was  not  yet  fatigued,  and  they  therefore  determ- 
ined to  let  him  work  as  long  as  he  was  able. 
He  went  down  seven  times  more.  They  still 
kept  the  boat  on  toward  the  east  till  the  line  of 
"  needles"  on  the  sand  island  liad  become  thrown 
farther  apart  and  stood  at  long  distances.  As- 
geelo came  up  each  time  unsuccessful. 

He  at  lust  weat  down  fur  the  eleventh  time. 


They  were  talking  as  usual,  not  expecting  that  he 
would  reapjiear  for  some  minutes,  when  saddenly 
a  siiout  WHS  heard,  and  Asgeelo's  head  emerged 
from  the  water  not  more  than  twenty  yards  from 
the  boat.  He  was  swimming  with  one  hand,  and 
in  the  other  he  held  an  uplifted  knife,  which  he 
occasionally  brandished  in  the  air  and  sjilashed 
in  the  water. 

Immediately  the  cause  of  this  became  manifest. 
Just  behind  him  a  sharp  black  hn  appeared  cut- 
ting the  surface  of  the  water. 

It  was  a  shark !  IJut  the  monster,  a  coward 
like  all  his  tribe,  deterred  by  the  jilashing  of  tiie> 
water  made  by  Asgeelo,  circled  round  him  and 
hesi;ated  to  seize  his  ])rey. 

The  moment  was  friglitful.  Yet  Asgeelo  ap- 
peared not  in  the  least  alarmed.  Ho  swam  slow- 
ly, occasionally  turning  his  Jiead  and  watching 
the  monster,  seeming  l)y  his  easy  dexterity  to  be 
almost  as  much  in  his  native  plcment  as  his  pur- 
suer, kcei>ing  his  eyes  fixed  on  him  and  holding 
his  knife  in  a  firm  dasji.  The  knife  was  a  long, 
keen  blade,  which  Asgeelo  had  carried  with  him 
for  years. 

Louis  and  Frank  could  do  nothing.  A  pistol 
bail  could  not  reach  this  monster,  who  kejt  him- 
self under  the  water,  where  a  ball  would  be  spent 
before  striking  him.  if  indeed  any  aim  coidd  di- 
rect a  bullet  toward  that  swift  darting  figure. 
Tliey  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  look  on  in  an 
agony  of  horror. 

^\sgeelo,  compelled  to  watch,  to  guard,  to 
splash  the  water,  and  to  turn  frequently,  made 
but  a  slow  passage  over  those  twenty  yards  wliidi 
sepaiated  him  from  the  boat.  At  last  it  seemed 
as  if  he  chose  to  stay  there.  It  seemed  to  those 
who  watched  him  with  such  awful  horroi'  that  he 


CORD  AND  CKliESE. 


or 


might  have  escaped  had  ho  (Jhosen,  but  that  he 
liud  8ume  idea  ut*  volunturily  encountering  the 
niun.Mter.  This  l)ecanie  evident  at  last,  ns  the 
Bhark  piiosed  before  him  wlien  they  saw  Asgeelo's 
face  turned  tuwurd  it ;  a  face  full  of  Herce  hate 
and  vengeance;  a  face  such  as  one  'urns  toward 
some  moiial  enemy. 

He  made  u  (|uick,  fierce  stroke  with  his  long 
kiiil'e.  The  sliark  gave  a  leap  upward.  The 
water  was  tinged  with  blood.  The  next  moment 
A.'-;;eeli)  went  down. 

*"  What  now  ?"  was  the  thought  of  the  brothers. 
Had  he  been  dragged  down?  Impossible!  And 
vet  it  seemed  equally  impossible  that  he  could 
have  gone  down  of  his  own  accord. 

In  a  moment  their  susjiense  was  ended.  A 
white  Hash  appeared  near  the  sinfaie.  The  next 
instant  a  dark,  sinewy  arm  emerged  from  be- 
neath, armed  with  a  long,  keen  knife,  which 
seemed  to  tear  down  with  one  tremendous  stroke 
that  white,  shining  surface. 

It  was  Asgeelo's  head  that  emerged  in  a  sea  of 
blood  and  foam.  Triumph  was  in  his  dark  face, 
as  with  one  bund  he  waved  his  knife  exultantly. 

A  few  moments  aftenvard  the  form  of  a  j^igan- 
tic  s'.iark  floated  u])ward  to  the  surface,  dyeing 
the  sea  with  the  blood  whicli  iiad  issued  from  tiie 
stnjke  dealt  by  Asgeelo.  2^'ot  yet,  hcnvever,  was 
the  vindictive  fury  of  the  Hindu  satiated.  He 
Kwaiu  np  to  it.  He  dashed  his  knife  over  and 
over  the  white  belly  till  it  became  a  hideous 
mass  of  gaping  entrails.  Then  he  came  into  the 
boar. 

He  sat  down,  a  hideous  figure.  Blood  covered 
bis  tawny  face,  and  the  fury  of  his  rage  had  not 
L'ft  the  features. 

The  strength  which  this  man  Iiad  shown  was 
tremendous,  yet  bis  quickness  and  agility  even 
ill  tlie  water  had  been  commensurate  with  his 
strengtli.  JJrandon  had  once  seen  proofs  of  his 
courage  in  the  dead  bodies  of  the  Malay  jjirates 
which  lay  around  him  in  tlie  >abin  of  that  iil- 
fatcd  Ciiinese  ship ;  but  all  tliat  he  had  done 
then  was  not  to  be  compared  to  this. 

They  could  not  help  asking  him  why  he  had 
not  at  once  made  his  escajie  to  the  boat,  instead 
of  staying  to  light  the  monster. 

Asgeelo's  look  was  as  gloomy  as  death  as  he 
replied, 

"  They  tore  in  pieces  my  son,  Sahib — my  only 
son — when  he  first  went  down,  and  I  have  to 
avenge  him.  I  killed  a  hundred  on  the  Malabar 
coast  before  I  left  it  forever.  That  shark  did 
not  attack  me  ;  I  attacked  him." 

"  If  vou  saw  one  now  would  vou  attack  him  ?" 

"Yes.  Sahib." 

Brandon  expressed  some  apprehension,  and 
wislied  iiim  not  to  risk  his  life. 

But  Asgeelo  explained  that  a  shark  could  be 
successfully  encountered  by  a  skillful  swimmer. 
Tlie  shark  is  long,  and  has  to  move  about  in  a 
ciicle  which  is  comparatively  large  ;  he  is  also  a 
'  oward,  and  a  good  swimmer  can  strike  him  if 
lie  only  chooses.  He  again  repeated  triumph- 
antly that  he  had  killed  more  than  a  hundred  to 
avenge  his  son. 

]ji  his  last  venture  Asgeelo  had  been  no  more 
successful  than  before.  IS'eedle  Island  was  now 
to  the  southwest,  and  Brandon  thought  that 
their  only  chance  was  to  try  farther  over  toward 
the  west,  where  they  liad  not  yet  explored. 

They  rowed  at  once  back  to  the  point  from 


which  they  had  set  cmt,  and  then  went  on  about 
a  hundred  and  fitYy  yards  to  the  west,  troni 
this  ]ilacc,  as  ihey  looked  toward  the  islet,  the 
three  rocks  seemed  so  close  together  that  they 
ap])earcd  blended,  and  the  three  sharp,  needle- 
like points  a]>peared  to  issue  from  one  common 
base.  This  circumstance  had  an  encouraging 
etfect,  for  it  seemed  to  the  brothers  us  though 
their  ancestor  might  have  looked  upon  those 
rocks  from  this  point  of  view  rather  than  from 
any  other  which  had  as  yet  come  upon  the  field 
of  their  observation. 

This  time  Brandon  himself  resolved  to  go 
down ;  j)artly  because  ho  thought  that  Asgeelo 
had  worked  long  enough,  and  ought  not  to  bo 
exhausted  on  that  first  day,  and  partly  on  ac- 
count 3f  an  intolerable  impatience,  and  an  eager- 
ness to  see  for  himself  rather  than  intrust  it  to 
others. 

There  was  the  horror  of  the  shark,  which 
might  have  detened  any  other  man.  It  was  a 
danger  which  he  had  never  taken  into  account. 
But  the  resube  of  his  soul  was  stronger  than 
any  fear,  and  he  determined  to  face  even  this 
danger.  If  he  lost  his  life,  he  was  indifferent. 
Let  it  go !  Life  was  not  so  precious  to  him  as 
to  some  others.  P'earless  by  nature,  he  was  or- 
dinarily ready  to  run  risks;  but  now  the  thing 
that  drew  him  onward  was  so  vast  in  its  import- 
ance that  he  was  willing  to  ^..-  unter  peril  of 
any  kind. 

Frank  was  aware  of  the  full  extent  of  this  new 
danger,  but  he  said  nothing,  nor  did  be  attempt 
in  any  way  to  dissuade  bis  brother.  He  himself, 
had  he  been  able,  woidd  have  gone  down  in  his 
jilace ;  but  as  he  was  not  able,  he  did  not  suji- 
posc  that  bis  brother  would  hesitate. 

The  ap]jaiatus  was  in  the  boat.  The  pump- 
ing-macliine  was  in  the  stem  ;  and  this,  with  the 
various  signal-ro])es,  was  managed  by  Frank. 
Asgeelo  rowed.  These  arrangements  had  lung 
since  been  made,  and  they  had  practiced  in  tins 
way  on  the  Hudson  Kiver. 

tiilcntly  Brandon  put  on  his  diving  armor. 
The  ropes  and  tubes  were  all  carefully  arranged. 
The  usual  weight  was  attached  to  his  belt,  and 
he  was  slowly  lowered  down  to  the  bottom  of  the 
sea. 

The  bottom  of  the  ocean  was  composed  of  a 
smooth,  even  surface  of  fine  sand  and  gravel, 
along  which  Brandon  moved  without  difliculty. 
The  cumbrous  annor  of  the  diver,  which  on  land  . 
is  so  heavy,  beneath  tlie  water  loses  its  excessive 
weight,  and  by  steadying  the  wearer  assists  him 
to  walk.  The  water  was  marvelously  transparent, 
as  is  usually  tlie  case  in  the  southern  seas,  and 
through  the  glass  ])late  in  his  helmet  Brandon 
coukl  look  forward  to  a  greater  distance  than  was 
possible  in  the  Hudson. 

Overhead  he  could  sec  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
as  it  floated  and  moved  on  in  the  direction  which 
he  wished  :  signals,  whicii  were  <nmmuiiicated  by 
a  ropewhicli  lie  held  in  his  band,  ^ildthemwhetli- 
er  to  go  fonvard  or  backward,  to  the  right  or  to 
the  left,  or  to  stop  altogether.  Practice  had  en- 
abled him  to  command,  and  them  to  obey,  with 
ease. 

Down  in  the  depths  to  which  he  had  descend- 
ed the  water  was  always  still,  and  the  storms  that 
affected  the  surface  never  ]ienetrated  there.  Bran- 
don learned  this  fnmi  the  delicate  shells  and  the 
still  more  delicate  forms  of  marine  plants  which 


98 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


lay  at  his  feet,  so  fragile  m  their  structure,  and 
so  delicately  poised  in  their  position,  that  they 
must  have  formed  themselves  in  deep,  dead  still- 
ness and  absolute  motionlessness  of  waters.  The 
very  movement  which  wns  caused  by  his  passage 
displaced  them  in  all  directions,  and  cast  them 
down  every  where  in  ruins.  Here,  in  such  depthe 
as  these,  if  the  sounding  lead  is  cast  ii  brings  up 
these  fragile  shells,  and  shows  to  tlie  observer  what 
profound  calm  must  exist  here,  far  away  beneath 
the  ordinary  vision  of  man. 

Practice  had  enabled  Brandon  to  move  with 
much  ease.  His  breathing  was  without  difficidty. 
The  first  troubles  arising  from  breathing  this  con- 
fined air  had  long  since  been  surmounted.  One 
tube  ran  down  from  the  boat,  through  which  the 
fresh  air  was  pushed,  and  another  tube  ran  up  a 
little  distance,  through  which  the  air  passed  and 
left  it  in  myriad  babbles  that  ascended  to  the  sur- 
face. 

He  wfdked  on,  and  soon  came  to  a  place  where 
things  changed  their  appearance.  Hard  sand 
was  here,  and  on  every  side  there  arose  curious- 
ly-shaped coral  structures,  which  resembled  more 
than  any  thing  else  a  leafless  forest.  These  coral 
tree-liks  forms  twisted  their  branches  in  strange 
involutions,  and  in  some  places  formed  a  perfect 
barrier  of  interlaced  arms,  so  that  he  was  forced 
to  make  a  detour  in  order  to  avoid  them.  The 
chief  fear  here  was  that  his  tube  might  get  en- 
tangled among  some  of  the  loftier  straggling 
branches,  and  impede  or  retard  his  progiess.  To 
avoid  this  caused  much  delay. 

Now,  among  the  coral  rocks,  the  vegetation  of 
the  lower  sea  began  to  appear  of  more  vivid  col- 
ors and  of  far  gi'eater  variety  than  any  which  he 
had  ever  seen.  Here  were  long  plants  which 
clung  to  the  coral  like  ivy,  seeming  to  be  a  spe- 
cies of  marine  parasite,  and  as  it  grew  it  throve 
more  luxuriantly.  Here  were  some  which  threw 
ont  long  arms,  terminating  in  vast,  broad,  palm- 
like leaves,  the  anns  intertwined  among  the  coral 
branches  and  the  leaves  hanging  downward.  Here 
were  long  streamers  of  fine,  silk-like  strings,  that 
were  suspended  from  many  a  projecting  branch, 
and  hillocks  if  spongy  substance  that  looked  like 
moss.  Here,  too,  were  plants  which  tlirew  forth 
long,  ribbon-like  leaves  of  variegated  color. 

It  was  a  forest  under  the  sea,  and  it  grew 
denser  at  every  step. 

At  last  his  progress  in  this  direction  was  term- 
.  inated  by  a  rock  which  came  from  a  southerly 
direction,  like  a  spur  from  the  islands.  It  arose 
to  a  height  of  about  thirty  feet  overhefid,  and 
descended  gradually  as  it  ran  north.  Brandon 
turned  aside,  and  walked  by  its  base  along  its 
entire  extent. 

At  its  termination  there  arose  a  long  vista, 
where  the  ground  ascended  and  an  opening  ap- 
peared through  this  marine  "forest."  On  each 
side  the  involuted  corals  flung  their  twisted  arms 
in  more  curious  and  intricate  folds.  The  vege- 
tation was  denser,  more  luxuriant,  and  more 
varied.  Beneath  him  was  a  growth  of  tender 
substance,  hairy  in  texture,  and  of  a  delicate 
green  color,  which  looked  more  like  lawn  grass 
of  the  upper  world  than  any  thing  else  in  nature. 
Brandon  walked  on,  and  even  in  the  intense 
desire  of  his  soul  to  find  what  he  sought  he  felt 
himself  overcome  by  the  sublime  influence  of  this 
submarine  world.  He  seemed  to  have  intruded 
into  some  other  sphere,  planting  his  rash  f.ot- 


steps  where  no  foot  of  man  ha  trodden  before, 
and  using  the  resources  of  scit  ace  to  violate  the 
hallowed  secrecy  of  awful  nature  in  her  most 
hidden  retreats.  Here,  above  all  things,  his  soul 
was  oppressed  by  the  universal  silence  around. 
Through  that  thick  helmet,  indeed,  no  sound 
under  a  clap  of  thunder  could  be  heard,  and  the 
ringing  of  his  ears  would  of  itself  have  prevented 
consciousness  of  any  other  noise,  yet  none  the 
less  was  he  aware  of  the  awful  stillness ;  it  was 
silence  that  could  be  felt.  In  the  sublimity  of 
that  lonely  pathway  he  felt  what  Hercules  is 
imagined  to  have  felt  when  passing  to  the  under- 
world after  Cerberus, 

Stupent  nbl  nndne  segne  torpescit  fretnm, 

and  half  expected  to  hear  some  voice  from  the 
dweller  in  this  place : 
"Quo  pergls  audaz?    Siste  proserentem  gradnm." 

•  There  came  to  him  only  such  dwellers  as  be- 
longed to  the  place.  He  saw  them  as  "^e  moied 
along.  He  saw  them  darting  out  from  the  hid- 
den penetialia  cround,  moving  swiftly  across  and 
sometimes  darting  in  shoals  before  him.  They 
began  to  appear  in  such  vast  numbers  that  Bran- 
don thought  of  that  monster  which  lay  a  mangled 
heap  upon  the  surface  above,  and  fancied  that  per- 
haps hi?  kindred  were  here  waiting  to  avenge  his 
death.  As  this  fear  came  full  and  well  defined 
before  him  he  drew  from  his  belt  the  knife  which' 
Asgeelo  had  given  him,  and  Frank  had  urged 
him  to  take,  feeling  himself  less  helpless  if  he 
held  this  in  his  hand. 

The  fishes  moved  about  him,  coming  on  in  new 
and  more  startled  crowds,  some  dashing  past, 
others  darting  upward,  and  others  moving  swift- 
ly ahead.  One  large  one  was  there  with  a  train 
of  followers,  \'  hich  moved  up  and  floate<'  or  a 
moment  directly  in  front  of  him,  its  large,  stu  ing 
eyes  seeming  to  view  him  in  wonder,  and  solemn- 
ly working  its  gills.  But  as  Brandon  came  close 
it  gfive  a  sudden  turn  and  darted  ott"  with  all  its 
attendants. 

At  last,  amidst  all  these  wonders,  he  saw  far 
ahead  something  which  drove  all  other  thoughts 
away,  whether  of  fear,  or  of  danger,  or  of  horror, 
and  filled  all  his  soui  with  an  overmastering  pas- 
sion of  desire  and  hope. 

It  was  a  dark  object,  too  remote  as  yet  to  be 
distinctly  visible,  yet  as  it  rose  there  his  fancy 
seemed  to  trace  the  outline  of  a  ship,  or  what 
might  once  have  been  a  ship.  The  presentation 
of  his  hope  before  him  thus  in  what  seemed  like 
a  reality  was  too  mucli.  He  stood  still,  and  his 
heart  beat  with  fierce  throbs. 

The  hope  was  so  precious  that  for  a  time  he 
hesitated  to  advance,  for  fear  lest  the  hope  might 
be  dispelled  forever.  And  then  to  fail  at  this 
place,  after  so  long  a  search,  when  he  :  Jied  to 
have  reached  the  end,  would  be  an  intolerable 
grief. 

There,  too,  was  that  strange  pathway  which 
seemed  made  on  purpose.  How  came  it  there  ? 
He  thought  that  perhaps  the  object  lying  befora 
him  might  have  caused  some  cuirent  which  set 
in  there  and  prevented  the  growth  of  plnnts  in 
that  place.  These  and  many  other  thoughts 
came  to  him  as  he  stood,  unwilling  to  move. 

But  at  last  he  conquered  his  feelings,  and  ad- 
vanced. Hope  grew  strong  within  him.  He 
thought  of  the  rime  on  Coffin  Island  when,  in  like 
manner,  he  had  hesitated  before  a  like  object. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


99 


Mig'  t  not  this,  like  that,  tnm  out  to  be  a  ship  ? 
And  now,  by  a  strange  revulsion,  all  his  feelings 
urged  him  on ;  hope  was  strong,  suspense  unen- 
durable. Whatever  that  object  was,  he  must 
know. 

It  might  indeed  be  a  rock.  Hfe  had  passed 
one  shortly  before,  which  had  gradually  declined 
into  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  this  might  be  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  same,  which  after  an  interval 
had  arisen  again  from  the  bottom.  It  was  long 
and  high  at  one  end,  and  rounded  forward  at  the 
other.  Such  a  shape  was  perfectly  natural  for  a 
rock.  He  tried  to  crush  down  ho^c,  co  as  to  be 
prepared  for  disappointment.  He  tried  to  con- 
vince himself  that  it  must  be  a  rock,  and  could 
by  no  possibility  be  any  thing  else.  Yet  his  ef- 
forts were  totally  fruitless.  {Still  the  conviction 
remained  that  it  was  a  ship,  and  if  so,  it  could 
be  no  other  than  the  one  he  sought. 

As  he  went  on  all  the  marine  vegetation 
ceased.  The  coral  rocks  continued  no  further. 
Now  all  around  the  bottom  of  the  sea  was  Sat, 
and  covered  wiih  fine  gravel,  like  that  which  he 
had  touched  when  he  first  came  down.  The 
fishes  had  departed.  The  sense  of  solemnity  left 
him;  only  one  thing  wa3  jjcrceptible,  and  that 
was  the  object  toward  which  he  walked. 

And  now  he  felt  within  him  such  an  uncon- 
trollable impulse  that  even  if  he  had  wished  he 
could  neither  have  paused  nor  gone  back.  To 
go  forward  was  only  possible.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  though  some  external  influence  had  penetrated 
his  body,  and  forced  him  to  move.  Again,  as 
once  before,  he  recalled  the  last  words  of  his  fa- 
ther, so  well  remembered : 

— "  If  in  that  other  world  to  which  I  am  go- 
ing the  disembodied  spirit  can  assist  man,  then 
be  sure,  oh  my  son,  I  will  assist  you,  and  in  the 
crisis  of  your  fate  I  will  be  near,  if  it  is  only  to 
communicate  to  your  spirit  what  you  ought  to 
do—" 

It  was  Ralph  Brandon  who  had  said  this. 
Here  in  this  object  which  lay  before  him,  if  it 
were  indeed  the  ship,  he  imagined  the  spirit  of 
another  Ralph  JJrandon  present,  awaiting  him. 

Suddenly  a  dark  shadow  passed  over  his  head, 
which  forced  him  involuntarily  to  look  up.  In 
spite  of  his  excitement  a  shudder  passed  through 
Wm.  Far  overhead,  at  the  surface  of  the  sea, 
the  boat  was  floating.  But  half-way  up  were 
three  dark  objects  moving  slowly  and  lazily  along. 
They  were  sharks. 

To  him,  in  his  loneliness  and  weakness,  nothing 
ever  seemed  so  menacing  as  these  three  demons 
of  the  deep  as  he  stared  up  at  them.  Had  they 
seen  him  ?  that  was  now  his  thought.  He  clutch- 
ed his  knife  in  a  firmer  hold,  feeling  all  the  while 
how  utterly  helple?"  he  was,  and  shrinking  away 
into  himself  from  the  terror  above.  The  mon- 
sters moved  leisurely  about,  at  -ne  time  grazing 
the  tube,  and  sending  down  a  vibration  which 
thrilled  like  an  electric  shock  through  him.  For 
a  moment  he  thought  that  they  were  malignant- 
ly tormenting  him,  and  had  done  this  on  purpose 
in  order  to  send  down  to  him  a  message  of  his 
Cite. 

He  waited. 

The  time  seemed  endless.  Yet  at  last  the  end 
came.  The  sharks  could  not  have  seen  him,  for 
they  gradually  moved  away  until  they  were  out 
of  sight. 

Brandon  did  not  dare  to  advance  for  some 


time.  Yet  now,  since  the  spell  of  this  presence 
was  removed,  his  horror  left  him,  and  his  former 
hope  animated  all  his  soul. 

There  lay  that  object  before  him.  Could  he 
advance  again  after  that  warning?  Dared  he? 
This  nev  realm  into  which  he  had  ventured  had 
indeed  those  who  were  ready  and  able  to  inflict 
a  sudden  and  frightful  vengeance  upon  the  rcsh 
intruder.  He  had  passed  pafely  amon^  the  hor- 
rors of  the  coral  forest ;  but  here,  on  this  plateau, 
could  he  hope  to  be  so  safe?  Might  noi  the 
slightest  movement  on  his  part  create  a  disturb- 
ance of  water  suflicient  to  awaken  the  attention 
of  those  departed  enemies  and  bring  them  back? 

This  was  his  fear.  But  hope,  and  a  resolute 
will,  and  a  determination  to  risk  all  on  this  last 
hazard,  alike  impelled  him  on.  Danger  now  lay 
every  where,  above  as  well  as  below.  An  ad- 
vance was  not  more  perilous  than  an  ascent  to 
the  boat.  Taking  comfort  from  this  last  thought 
he  moved  onward  with  a  steady,  determined 
step. 

Hope  grew  stronger  as  he  drew  nearer.  The 
dark  mass  gradually  formed  itself  into  a  more 
distinct  outline.  Th3  uncertain  lines  defined 
into  more  certain  shape,  and  the  resemblance  to 
a  ship  became  greater  and  greater.  He  could 
no  longer  resist  the  conviction  that  this  must  be 
a  ship. 

Still  he  tried  feebly  to  prepare  for  disappoint- 
ment, and  made  faint  fancies  as  to  the  reason 
why  a  rock  should  be  formed  here  in  this  shape. 
All  the  time  he  scouted  those  fancies  and  felt  as- 
sured that  it  was  not  a  rock. 

Nearer  and  nearer.  Doubt  no  longer  re- 
mained. He  stood  close  beside  it.  It  was  in- 
deed a  ship !  Its  sides  rose  high  over  head.  Its 
lotty  stem  stood  up  like  a  tower,  after  tlie  fashion 
of  a  ship  of  the  days  of  Queen  Eliziibeth.  The 
masts  had  fallen  and  lay,  encumbered  with  the 
rigging,  over  the -side. 

Brandon  walked  all  around  it,  his  heart  beat- 
ing fast,  seeing  at  every  step  some  new  proof 
that  this  must  be  no  other,  by  any  conceivable 
possibility,  than  the  one  which  he  sought.  On 
reaching  the  bows  he  saw  the  outline  of  a  bird 
caned  for  the  figure-head,  and  knew  that  this 
must  be  the  Phoenix. 

He  walked  around.  The  bottom  was  sandy 
and  the  ship  had  settled  down  to  some  depth. 
Her  sides  were  covered  with  fine  dark  shells, 
like  an  incrustation,  to  a  depth  of  an  inch,  mingled 
with  a  short  growth  of  a  gi-een,  slimy  sea-weed. 

At  last  he  could  delay  no  longer.  One  of  the 
masts  lay  over  the  side,  and  this  afforded  an  easy 
way  by  which  he  could  clamber  upward  upon  the 
deck. 

In  a  few  moments  Brandon  stood  upon  the 
deck  of  the  Phoenix. 

The  ship  which  had  thus  lain  here  through 
centuries,  saturated  witli  water  that  had  ))er.e- 
trated  to  its  inmost  fibre,  still  held  together  stur- 
dily. Beneath  the  sea  the  water  itself  had  acied 
as  a  preser^•ative,  and  retarded  or  jirevented  de- 
cay. Brandon  looked  arouna  as  he  stood  there, 
and  the  light  that  came  from  above,  where  the 
surface  of  the  sea  was  now  much  nearer  than  be- 
fore, showed  him  all  the  extent  of  the  ship. 

The  beams  which  supported  the  deck  had  lost 
their  stiflfness  and  sunk  downward;  the  masts, 
as  before  stated,  had  toppled  over  for  the  same 
reason,  yielding  to  their  own  weight,  which,  as 


100 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


THE    MASTS    HAD   FALLEN    AND   LAY,   ENCnMBERED   WITH   THE    KlGtilNU,   OVEK   THE   SIDE. 


the  vessel  wns  slightly  on  one  side,  had  gradually 
home  them  down ;  the  howsprit  also  had  fallen. 
The  hatchways  had  yielded,  and,  giving  way,  had 
sunk  down  within  the  hold.  The  doors  which 
led  into  the  cabin  in  the  lofty  poop  were  lying 
prostrate  on  the  deck.  The  large  sVy-light  which 
once  had  stood  there  had  also  followed  the  same 
fate. 

Before  going  doivn  Brandon  had  arranged  a 
signal  to  send  to  Frank  in  case  he  fouud  the  ship. 
In  his  excitement  lie  had  not  yet  given  it.  Be- 
fore venturing  farther  he  thought  of  this.  But 
he  decided  not  to  make  the  signal.  The  idea 
came,  and  was  rejected  amidst  a  world  of  vary- 
ing hopes  and  fears,     lie  thought  that  if  he  was 


successful  he  himself  would  he  the  best  messen- 
ger of  success ;  and,  if  not,  he  would  be  the  best 
messenger  of  evil. 

He  advanced  townid  the  cabin.  Turning  away 
from  the  door  he  clambered  upon  the  poop,  and, 
looking  down,  tr-ed  to  see  what  depth  there  miglit 
be  beneath.  lie  saw  something  which  looked  as 
though  it  had  once  been  a  table.  Slowly  and 
cautiously  he  let  himself  dowTi  through  tlie  open- 
ing, and  his  feet  touched  bottom.  He  moved 
downward,  and  let  Ids  feet  slide  till  they  touched 
the  floor. 

He  was  within  the  cabin. 

The  light  here  was  almost  equal  to  that  witli- 
out,  for  the  sky-light  was  very  wide.     The  lloor 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


101 


was  sunken  in  like  the  deck  of  the  ship.  He 
looked  around  to  see  where  he  might  first  search 
for  the  treasure.  Suddenly  his  eye  caught  sight 
of  something  which  drove  away  every  other 
thought. 

At  one  end  was  a  seat,  and  there,  propped  up 
against  the  wall,  was  a  skeleton  in  a  sitting  pos- 
ture. Around  it  was  a  belt  with  a  sworu  at- 
tached. The  figure  had  partly  twisted  itseif 
round,  but  its  head  aiid  shoulders  were  so  propped 
up  against  the  wall  that  it  could  not  fall. 

Brandon  advanced,  ^Ued  with  a  thousand  emo- 
tions. One  hand  was  lying  down  in  front.  He 
lifted  it.  There  was  a,  gold  ring  on  the  bony 
finger.  He  took  it  off.  In  the  dim  light  he  saw, 
cut  in  bold  relief  on  this  seal-ring,  the  crest  of  his 
family — a  Phoenix. 

It  was  his  ancestor  himself  who  was  before  him. 

Here  he  had  calmly  taken  his  seat  when  the 
»hip  was  settling  slowly  down  into  the  embrace 
of  the  waters.  Here  he  had  taken  his  seat,  calm- 
ly and  sternly,  awaiting  his  death — perh^B  with 
a,  feeling  of  grim  triumph  that  he  could  thus  elude 
his  foes.  This  was  the  man,  and  this  the  hand, 
which  had  %vritten  the  message  that  had  drawn 
the  descendant  here. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through 
Brandon's  mind.  He  put  the  ring  on  his  own 
finger  and  turned  away.  His  ancestor  had  sum- 
moned'him  hither,  and  here  he  was.  Where  was 
the  treasure  that  was  promised  ? 

Brandon's  impatience  now  rose  to  a  fever. 
Only  one  thought  filled  his  mind.  All  around 
the  cabin  were  little  rooms,  into  each  of  which  he 
looked.  The  doors  had  all  fallen  away.  Yet  he 
saw  nothing  in  any  of  them. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  in  deep  doubt.  Where 
could  he  look  ?  Could  he  venture  down  into  the 
dark  hold  and  explore  ?  How  could  he  hope  to 
find  any  thing  there,  amidst  the  ruins  of  that  in- 
terior where  guns  and  chains  lay,  perhaps  all  min- 
gled together  where  they  had  fallen  ?  It  would 
need  a  longer  time  to  find  it  than  he  had  at  first 
supposed.  Yet  would  he  falter ?  No!  Rather 
than  give  up  he  would  pass  years  hero,  till  he  had 
dismembered  the  whole  ship  and  strewn  evry 
particle  of  her  piecemeal  over  the  bottom  of  the 
sea.  Yet  he  had  hoped  to  solve  the  whole  mys- 
tery at  the  first  visit ;  and  now,  since  he  saw  no 
sign  of  any  thing  like  treasure,  he  was  for  a  while 
at  a  loss  what  to  do. 

His  ancestor  had  summoned  him,  and  he  had 
come.  Where  was  the  treasure  ?  Where?  Why 
could  not  that  figure  arise  and  show  him  ? 

Such  were  his  thoughts.  Yet  these  thoughts, 
the  result  of  excitement  that  was  now  a  frenzy, 
soon  gave  rise  to  others  that  were  calmer. 

He  reflected  that  perhaps  some  other  feeling 
than  what  he  had  at  first  imagined  might  have 
inspired  that  grim  old  Englishman  when  he  took 
his  seat  there  and  chose  to  drown  on  that  seat 
rather  than  move  away.  Some  other  feeling, 
and  what  feeling?  Some  feeling  which  must 
have  been  the  strongest  in  his  heart.  What  was 
that  ?  The  one  which  had  inspired  the  message, 
the  desire  to  secure  still  more  that  treasure  for 
which  he  had  toiled  and  fought.  His  last  act 
was  to  send  the  message,  why  should  he  not  have 
still  borne  that  thought  in  his  mind  and  carried 
it  till  he  died? 

The  skeleton  was  at  one  end,  supported  by  the 
wall.     Two  posts  projected  on  each  side.     A 


heavy  caken  chair  stood  there,  which  had  once 
perhaps  been  fastened  to  the  floor.  Brandon 
thought  that  he  would  first  examine  that  wall 
Perhaps  there  might  be  some  opening  there. 

He  took  the  skeleton  in  his  arms  reverently, 
and  proceeded  to  lift  it  from  the  chair.  He  could 
not.  He  looked  more  narrowly,  and  saw  a  chain 
which  had  been  fastened  around  it  and  bound  it 
to  the  chair. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this?  Had  the 
crew  mutinied,  bound  the  captain,  and  run? 
Had  the  Spaniards  seized  the  ship  after  all? 
Had  they  recovered  the  spoil,  and  punished  in 
this  way  the  plunderer  of  three  galleons,  by  bind- 
ing him  here  to  the  chair,  scuttling  the  ship,  and 
sending  him  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  ? 

The  idea  of  the  possibility  of  this  made  Bran- 
don sick  with  anxiety.  He  pulled  the  chair 
away,  put  it  on  one  side,  and  began  to  examine 
the  wooden  wall  by  running  his  hand  along  it. 
There  was  nothing  whatever  perceptible.  The 
wall  was  on  the  side  farthest  from  the  stem,  and 
almost  amidships.  He  pounded  it,  and,  by  the 
feeling,  knew  that  it  was  hollow  behind.  He 
walked  to  the  door  which  was  on  one  side,  and 
passed  in  behind  this  very  wall.  There  was  no- 
thing there.  It  had  onoe  perhaps  been  used  as 
part  of  the  cabin.  He  came  back  disconsolately, 
and  stood  on  the  very  place  where  the  chair  had 
been. 

"  Let  me  be  calm, "  he  said  to  himself.  "This 
enterprise  is  hopeless.  Yes,  the  i-paniardt.  cap- 
tured the  ship,  recovered  the  treasure,  and 
drowned  my  ancestor.  Let  me  not  be  deceived. 
Let  me  cast  away  hope,  and  search  here  without 
any  idle  expectation." 

Suddenly  as  he  thought  he  felt  the  floor  gradu- 
al!^ giving  way  beneath  him.  lie  started^  but 
before  he  could  move  or  even  think  in  what  di- 
rection to  go  the  floor  sank  in,  and  he  at  once 
sank  with  it  downward. 

Had  it  not  been  that  the  tube  was  of  ample  ex- 
tent, and  had  been  carefully  managed  so  as  to 
guard  against  any  abrupt  descent  among  rocks  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea,  this  sudden  fall  might  have 
ended  Brandon "s  career  forever.  As  it  was  he 
only  sank  quickly,  but  without  accident,  until  his 
breast  was  on  a  level  with  the  cabin  floor. 

In  a  moment  the  truth  flashed  upon  him.  He 
had  been  standing  on  a  trap-door  which  opened 
from  the  cabin  floor  into  the  hold  of  the  ship. 
Over  this  trap-door  old  Ralph  Brandon  had 
seated  and  bound  himself.  Was  it  to  guard  the 
treasure?  Was  it  that  he  might  await  his  de- 
scendant, and  thus  silently  indicate  to  him  the 
place  where  he  must  look  ? 

And  now  the  fever  of  Brandon's  conflicting 
hope  and  fear  grew  more  intense  than  it  had  ever 
yet  been  through  all  this  day  of  days.  He  stooped 
down  to  feel  what  it  was  that  lay  under  his  feet. 
His  hands  grasped  something,  the  very  touch  of 
which  sent  a  thrill  sharp  and  sudden  through 
every  fibre  of  his  being. 

They  were  metallic  bars! 

He  rose  up  again  overcome.  He  hardly  dared 
to  take  one  up  so  as  to  see  what  it  might  be. 
For  the  actual  sight  would  realize  hope  or  destroy 
it  forever. 

Once  more  he  stooped  dowTi.  In  a  sort  of  fury 
he  grasped  a  bar  in  each  hand  and  raised  it  up  to 
the  light. 

Down  under  the  sea  the  action  of  water  had 


lOS 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


not  destroyed  the  color  of  those  bant  which  he 
ht:M  up  in  the  dim  light  tliat  came  through  the 
•watere.  The  dull  yellow  of  those  rough  ingots 
geemed  to  gleam  with  dazzling  brightnecs  l)efore 
his  bewildered  ey«9,  and  filled  his  whole  soul  ".vith 
a  torrent  of  rapture  and  of  triumph. 

His  emotions  overcame  him.  The  bars  of  gold 
fell  down  from  his  trembling  hands.  He  sank 
back  and  leaned  against  the  wall. 

But  what  was  it  that  lay  under  his  feet  ?  What 
were  all  these  bars  ?  Were  they  all  gold  ?  Was 
this  indeed  all  here — the  plunder  of  the  Spanish 
treasure-ships — the  wealth  which  migiit  purchase 
a  kingdom — the  treasure  equal  to  an  empire's 
revenue  —  the  gold  and  jewels  in  countless 
store  ? 

A  few  moments  of  raspite  were  needed  in  or- 
der to  overcome  the  tremendous  conflict  of  feel- 
ing which  raged  within  his  breast.  Then  once 
more  he  stooped  down.  His  outstretched  hand 
felt  over  all  this  space  which  thus  was  piled  up 
with  treasure. 

It  was  about  four  feet  square.  The  ingots  lay 
in  the  centre.  Around  the  sides  were  boxes. 
One  of  these  he  took  out.  It  was  made  of  thick 
oaken  plaiilf,  and  was  about  ten  inches  long  and 
eight  wide.  The  inisty  nails  gave  but  little  re- 
sistance, and  the  iron  bands  which  once  bound 
them  peeled  off  at  a  touch.  He  opened  the 
box. 

Inside  was  a  casket. 

He  tore  open  the  casket. 

It  was  Jilled  with  jewels  ! 

His  work  was  ended.  No  more  search,  no 
more  fear.  He  bound  the  casket  tightly  to  the 
end  of  the  signal-line,  added  to  it  a  bar  of  gold, 
and  clambered  to  the  deck. 

He  cast  off  the  weight  that  was  at  his  waist, 
which  he  also  fastened  to  the  line,  and  lot  it  go. 

Freed  from  the  weight  he  rose  buoyantly  to 
the  top  of  the  water. 

The  boat  pulled  rapidly  toward  him  and  took 
him  in.  As  he  removed  his  helmet  he  saw 
Frank's  eyes  fixed  on  his  in  mute  inquiry.  His 
face  was  ashen,  his  lips  bloodless. 

Louis  smiled. 

"Heavens!"  c.ied  Frank,  "can  it  be?" 

"  Pull  up  the  signal-line  and  see  for  yourself," 
was  the  answer. 

And,  as  Frank  pulled,  Louis  uttered  a  cry 
which  made  him  look  up. 

Louis  pointed  to  the  sun.  "  Good  God !  what 
a  time  I  must  liave  been  down ! " 

"Time!"  said  Frank.  "Don't  say  time — it 
was  eternity ! " 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Beatrice's  journal. 

Brandon  Hali- 
September  1,  1848. — Paolo  Langhetti  used  to 
say  that  it  was  useful  to  keep  a  diary ;  not  one 
from  day  to  day,  for  each  day's  events  are  gen- 
erally trivial,  and  therefore  not  worthy  of  record ; 
but  rather  a  statement  in  full  of  more  important 
events  in  one's  life,  which  may  be  turned  to  in 
later  years.  I  wish  I  had  begun  this  sixteen 
months  ago,  when  I  first  came  here.  How  full 
would  have  been  my  melancholy  record  by  this 
time ! 
Where  shall  I  begin? 


Of  course,  with  my  arrival  here,  for  that  is  the 
time  when  we  separated.  I  here  is  no  need  for 
me  to  put  down  in  writing  the  events  that  took 
place  when  he  was  with  me.  Not  a  word  tliat 
he  ever  spoke,  not  a  look  that  he  ever  gave,  has 
escaped  my  memorj'.  This  much  I  may. set 
down  here. 

Alas !  ;he  shadow  of  the  African  forest  fell 
deeply  and  darkly  upon  me.  Am  I  stronger 
than  other  women,  or  weaker?  I  know  not. 
Yet  I  can  be  calm  while  my  heart  is  breaking. 
Yes,  I  am  at  once  stronger  and  weaker ;  so  weak 
that  my  heart  breaks,  so  strong  that  I  can  hide 
it. 

I  will  begin  from  the  time  of  my  arrival  here. 

I  came  knowing  well  who  the  lOan  was  and 
wliat  he  was  whom  I  had  for  my  father.  I 
came  v<it]i  every  word  of  that  despairi.ig  voyager 
ringing  in  my  ears — that  cry  from  the  drifting 
Vishnu,  where  Despard  laid  down  to  die.  How 
is  it  that  his  very  name  thrills  through  me  ?  I 
am  nothing  to  him.  I  am  one  of  the  hateful 
brood  of  murderers.  A  Thug  was  my  father — 
and  my  mother  who?  And  who  nm  I,  and 
what  ? 

At  least  my  soul  is  not  his,  though  I  am  his 
daughter.  My  soul  is  myself,  and  life  on  earth 
can  not  last  forever.  Hereafter  I  may  stand 
where  that  man  may  never  approach. 

How  can  I  ever  forget  the  first  sight  which  I 
had  of  my  father,  who  before  I  saw  him  had 
become  to  me  as  abhorrent  as  a  demon !  I  came 
up  in  the  coach  to  the  door  of  the  Hall  and  looked 
out.  On  the  broad  piazza  there  were  two  men ; 
one  was  sitting,  .be  other  standing. 

The  one  Avho  wa?  standing  was  somewhat  eld- 
erly, with  a  broad,  tat  face,  which  expressed  no- 
thing in  particular  but  vulgar  good-nature.  He 
was  dressed  in  black,  and  looked  like  a  serious 
butler,  or  perhaps  still  more  like  some  of  tlie 
Dissenting  ministers  whom  I  have  seen.  He 
stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  at 
me  ynth  a  vacant  smile. 

The  other  man  was  younger,  not  o'l'er  thirt}-. 
He  was  thin,  and  looked  pale  from  dissipation. 
His  face  was  covered  with  spots,  his  eyes  were 
gray,  his  eyelashes  white.  He  was  smoking  a 
very  large  pipe,  and  a  tumbler  of  some  kind  of 
drink  stood  on  the  stone  pavement  at  his  feet. 
He  stared  at  mo  between  the  puffs  of  his  pipe, 
and  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

If  I  had  not  already  tasted  the  bitterness 
of  despair  I  should  have  tasted  it  as  I  saw  these 
men.  Something  told  me  that  they  were  my 
father  and  brother.  My  very  soul  sickened  at 
the  sight — the  memory  of  Despard's  words  came 
back — and  if  it  had  been  possible  to  have  felt 
any  tender  natural  affection  for  them,  this  recol- 
lection would  have  destroyed  it. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Potts,"  said  I,  coldly. 

My  father  stared  at  me. 

"  I'm  Mr.  Potts,"  he  answered. 

"  I  am  Beatrice,"  said  I ;  "  I  have  just  arrived 
from  China. " 

By  this  time  the  driver  had  opened  the  door, 
and  I  got  out  and  walked  up  on  the  piazza. 

"Johnnie,"  exclaimed  my  father,  "what  the 
Jenl  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?" 

"Gad,  I  don't  know,"  returned  John,  with  a 
puff  of  smoke. 

"Didn't  you  say  she  was  drowned  off  the 
African  coast  ?" 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


lOS 


"  I  saw  80  in  the  newspapers." 

"Didn't  you  tell  me  about  the /'a/con  rescning 
her  from  the  pirates,  and  then  getting  wrecked 
with  all  OK  board  ?  ' 

'■  Yes,  but  then  there  was  a  girl  that  escaped." 

"  Oh  hoi"  said  ray  father,  with  a  long  whistle. 
"I  didn't  know  Miat.' 

He  turned  und  looked  at  me  hastily,  but  in  deep 
perplexity. 

"So  you're  the  girl,  are  you ?" said  ho  at  last. 

*'  I  am  your  daughter,"  I  answered. 

I  saw  him  look  at  John,  who  winked  in  return. 

He  walked  up  and  down  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  at  last  stopped  and  looked  at  me  again. 
'"I'hat's  all  very  well,"  said  he  at  last,  "but  how 
do  I  know  that  you're  the  party  ?  Have  you  any 
proof  of  this?" 

"No." 

"  You  have  nothing  but  /our  own  statement?" 

"No." 

"  And  you  may  be  an  impostor.  Mind  you — 
I'm  a  magistrate — and  you'd  lietter  be  careful." 

"  Y'ou  can  do  what  you  choose,"  said  I,  coldly. 

"No,  I  can't.  In  this  country  a  man  can't 
do  what  he  chooses." 

I  was  silent. 

"  Jol'.r.nie,"  said  my  father,  "  111  have  to  leave 
her  to  you.     You  arrange  it." 

John  looked  at  me  lazily,  stiU  smoking,  and 
for  some  time  said  r.othing. 

"I  suppose,"  said  he  at  last,  "j'ou've  got  to 
put  it  through.  Y'^ou  began  it,  you  know.  You 
would  send  for  her.     I  never  saw  the  use  of  it." 

"  But  do  you  think  this  is  the  party  ?" 

"Oh,  I  dare  say.  It  don't  make  any  differ- 
ence any  way.  Nobody  would  take  the  trouble 
to  come  to  yoa  with  a  sham  story." 

"That's  a  fact,"  si'id  my  father. 

"So  I  don't  see  but  you've  got  to  take  her." 

"Well,"  said  my  father,  "if  you  think  so, 
why  all  right." 

"  I  don't  think  any  thing  of  the  kind,"  returned 
John,  snappishly.  "  I  only  think  that  she's  the 
party  you  sent  for." 

"Oh,  ^^■ell,  it's  all  the  same,"  said  my  father, 
who  then  turned  to  me  again. 

"  If  you're  the  girl,"  he  said,  "  you  can  get  in. 
Hunt  up  Mrs.  Compton,  and  she'll  take  charge 
of  you." 

Compton !  At  the  mention  of  that  name  a 
shudder  passed  through  me.  She  had  been  in 
the  family  of  the  murdered  man,  and  had  ever 
since  lived  with  his  murderer.  I  went  in  with- 
out a  word,  prepared  for  the  woret,  and  expect- 
ing to  see  some  evil-faced  woman,  fit  companion 
for  the  pair  outside. 

A  servant  was  passing  along.  "Where  is 
Mrs.  Compion  ?"  I  asked. 

"Somewhere  or  other,  I  suppose,"  growled 
the  man,  and  went  on. 

I  stood  quietly.  Had  I  not  been  prepared  for 
some  such  thing  as  this  I  might  perhaps  have 
broken  down  under  grief,  but  I  had  read  the 
MS.,  and  nothing  could  surprise  or  wound  me. 

I  waited  there  for  nearly  half  an  hour,  dur- 
ing which  time  no  notice  was  taken  of  me.  I 
heard  my  father  and  John  walk  down  the  piazza 
steps  and  go  away.  They  had  evidently  forgot- 
ten all  about  me.  At  last  a  man  came  toward 
the  door  who  did  not  look  like  a  servant.  He 
was  dressed  in  black.  He  was  a  slender,  pale, 
shambling  man,  v.-ith  thin,  light  hair,  and  a  fur- 


tive eye  and  a  weary  face.  He  did  not  look  like 
one  who  would  insult  me,  so  I  asked  him  where 
I  could  find  Mrs.  Compton. 

He  started  as  I  siK)ke  and  looked  at  me  in 
wonder,  yet  respectfully. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  China,"  said  I,  "and 
my  father  told  me  to  find  Mrs.  Compton." 

He  looked  at  me  for  souie  time  without  speak- 
ing a  word.  I  began  to  think  that  he  was  imbe- 
cile. 

"So  you  are  Mr.  Potts's  daughter,"  said  he 
at  last,  in  a  thin,  weak  voice.  "I — I  didn't 
know  that  you  had  come — 1 — I  knew  that  he 
was  expecting  you — but  heard  you  were  lost  at 
sea —  Mrs.  Compton— yes — oli  yes — I'll  show 
you  where  you  can  find  Mrs.  Compton." 

He  was  embarrassed,  yet  not  unkind.  There 
was  wonder  in  his  face,  as  though  he  was  sur- 
prised at  my  appearance.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause he  found  me  so  unliko  my  father.  He 
walked  toward  the  great  stairs,  from  time  to 
time  turning  his  head  to  look  at  me,  and  ascend- 
ed them.  I  followed,  and  af  er  going  to  the 
third  story  we  came  to  a  room. 

"That's  the  place,"  said  he. 

He  then  turned,  without  replying  to  iny 
thanks,  and  left  me.  I  knocked  at  the  door. 
After  some  delay  it  was  opened,  and  I  went  in. 
A  thin,  pale  woman  was  there.  Her  hair  was 
perfectly  white.  Her  face  was  marked  by  the 
traces  of  great  grief  and  suffering,  yet  overs])read 
by  an  expression  of  surpassing  gentleness  and 
sweetness.  She  looked  like  one  of  these  women 
who  live  lives  of  devotion  for  others,  who  suffer 
out  of  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  and  count  their 
own  comfort  and  happiness  as  nothing  in  com- 
parison with  that  of  those  whom  they  love.  My 
heart  warmed  toward  her  at  the  first  glance;  I 
saw  tliat  this  place  riould  not  be  altogether  cor- 
rupt since  she  was  here. 

"I  am  Mr.  Potts's  daughter,"  said  I;  "are 
you  Mrs.  Compton  ?'' 

She  stood  mute.  An  expression  of  deadly 
fear  overspread  her  countenance,  which  seemed 
to  turn  her  white  face  to  a  grayish  hue,  and  the 
look  that  she  gave  me  was  such  a  look  as  one 
may  cast  upon  some  obje  "t  of  mortal  fear. 

"  Y''ou  look  alarmed,"  said  I,  in  surprise ;  "and 
why  ?    Am  I  then  so  frightful  ?" 

She  seized  my  hand  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 
This  new  outburst  surprised  me  as  much  as  her 
former  fear.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  "  Ah ! 
my  sweet  child,  my  dearest!"'  she  murmured. 
"  How  did  you  come  here,  here  of  all  places  on 
earth  ?" 

I  was  touched  by  the  tenderness  and  sympathy 
of  her  tone.  It  was  full  of  the  gentlest  love. 
"  How  did  you  come  here?"  I  asked. 

She  started  and  turned  on  me  her  former  lock 
of  fear. 

"Do  not  look  at  me  so,"  said  I,  "dear  Mrs. 
Compton.  You  are  timid.  Do  not  be  afraid  of 
me.  I  am  incapable  of  inspiring  fear."  Ipressed 
her  hand.  "  Let  us  say  nothing  more  now  about 
the  place.  We  each  seem  to  know  what  it  is. 
Since  I  find  one  like  you  living  here  it  will  not 
seem  altogether  a  place  of  despair." 

"  Oh,  dear  child,  what  words  are  these  ?  Y'ou 
sptak  as  if  you  knew  all." 

"  I  know  much,"  said  I,  "and  I  have  suffered 
much." 

"  Ah,  my  dearest !  you  are  too  young  and  too 


tM 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


t>eautiful  to  snfTer. "  An  agony  of  Borrow  came 
ov«r  her  fnce.  Then  I  haw  upon  it  an  cxpresKion 
which  I  have  often  marked  since,  a  strange  Htrug- 
gling  desire  to  say  something,  wliieh  that  excess- 
ive and  ever-present  terror  of  here  made  her  in- 
capable of  uttering.  8ome  secret  thouglit  was 
in  her  whole  face,  but  her  faltering  tongue  was 
paralyzed  and  could  not  d'<-ulge  it. 

She  turned  away  with  a  deep  high.  I  looked 
at  her  with  much  interest.  Mie  was  not  the  wo- 
man I  expected  to  Hnd.  Her  face  and  voice 
won  my  heart.  She  was  certainly  one  to  he  tnist- 
ed.     liut  still  there  was  this  mysiery  about  her. 

]^othing  could  exceed  her  kindness  and  tender- 
ness. She  arranged  my  room,  t-ho  did  every 
thing  that  could  be  done  to  give  it  un  air  of  com- 
fort. It  was  a  very  luxuriously  furnished  cham- 
ber. All  the  house  was  lordly  in  its  style  and 
arrangements.  That  first  night  1  slept  the  sleep 
of  the  weary, 

T'  e  next  day  I  spent  in  my  room,  occupied 
witli  my  o\vn  sad  thoughts.  At  about  three  in 
the  afternoon  I  saw  him  come  up  the  avenue. 
My  heart  throbbed  violently.  My  eyes  were 
riveted  upon  that  well-known  face,  how  loved ! 
how  dear !  In  vain  I  tried  to  conjecture  the  rea- 
son why  he  should  come.  Was  it  to  strike  the 
first  blow  in  his  just,  his  implacable  vengeance  ? 
I  longed  that  I  might  receive  that  blow.  Any 
thing  that  came  from  him  would  be  sweet. 

He  staid  a  long  time  and  then  left.  What 
passed  I  can  not  conjecture.  But  it  had  evident- 
ly been  an  agreeable  visit  to  my  father,  for  I 
heard  him  laughing  uproariously  on  the  piazza 
about  something  not  long  after  he  had  gone. 

I  have  not  seen  him  since. 

For  several  weeks  I  scarcely  moved  from  my 
room.  I  ate  with  Mrs.  Compton.  Her  reserve 
was  impenetrable.  It  was  with  pi  ifixl  fear  and 
trembling  that  she  touched  upon  any  thing  con- 
nected with  the  affairs  of  the  house  or  the  family. 
I  saw  it  and  spared  her.  Poor  thing,  she  has  al- 
ways been  too  timid  far  such  a  life  as  this. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  I  began  to  think  that  I 
could  live  here  in  a  state  of  obscurity  without 
being  molested.  Strange  that  a  daughters  feel- 
ings toward  a  father  and  brother  should  be  those 
of  horror,  and  that  her  desire  with  reference  to 
them  should  be  merely  to  keep  out  of  their  sight. 
I  had  no  occupation,  and  needed  none,  for  I  had 
my  thoughts  and  my  memories.  These  memo- 
ries were  bitter,  yet  sweet.  I  took  the  sweet, 
and  tried  to  solace  myself  with  them.'  The  days 
are  gone  forever ;  no  longer  does  the  sea  spread 
\vide ;  no  longer  can  I  hear  his  voice ;  I  can 
hold  him  in  my  arms  no  more ;  yet  I  can  re- 
member— 

"Das  siisseste  Gliick  fiir  die  trauemde  Brnst, 
Nach  der  schonen  Liebe  verschwiindener  Lust, 
Sind  der  Liebe  Schmerzeu  und  Klagen." 

I  think  I  had  lived  tliis  sort  of  life  for  three 
months  without  seeing  either  my  father  or 
brother. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  my  father  sent  for  me. 
He  informed  me  that  he  intended  to  give  a  grand 
entertainment  to  the  county  families,  and  wanted 
me  to  do  the  honors.  He  had  ordered  dress- 
makers for  me ;  he  wished  me  to  wear  some  jew- 
els which  he  had  in  the  house,  and  informed  me 
that  it  would  be  the  grandest  thing  of  the  kind 
that  had  ever  taken  place.  Fire-works  were  go- 
ing to  be  let  off;  the  grounds  were  to  be  illumin- 


ated, and  nothing  that  money  could  eifect  would 
l>e  spared  to  render  it  tlie  most  splendid  festival 
that  could  be  imagined, 

I  did  as  he  said.  The  drc^s-makers  came,  and 
I  allowed  them  to  array  me  us  they  clioj^e.  My 
father  informed  me  that  he  aouUI  not  give  me 
the  jewels  till  the  time  i't:ine,  hinting  a  tear  that 
I  might  steal  them. 

At  last  the  evening  arrived.  Invitations  had 
l)een  sent  every  rthere.  It  was  expected  that 
the  house  would  be  crowded.  My  father  even 
ventured  to  make  a  personal  request  that  I  would 
adorn  myself  as  well  as  possible.  I  did  the  best 
I  could,  and  went  to  the  drawing-room  to  receive 
the  expected  crowds. 

The  hour  came  and  passed,  but  no  one  ap- 
peared. My  father  looked  a  little  troubled,  but 
ho  and  John  waited  in  the  drawing-room.  Serv- 
ants were  sent  down  to  see  if  any  one  was  ap- 
proaching. An  hour  passed.  My  father  looked 
deeply  enraged.  Two  hours  passed.  Still  no 
one  came.  Three  hours  passed.  I  waited  calm- 
ly, but  my  father  and  John,  who  had  all  the 
time  been  drinking  freely,  became  furious.  It 
was  now  midnight,  and  all  hope  had  left  them. 
They  had  been  treated  with  scorn  by  the  whole 
county. 

The  senants  were  laughing  at  my  father's  dis- 
grace. The  proud  array  in  the  different  rooms 
was  all  a  mockery.  The  elaborate  iire-works 
could  not  be  used. 

My  father  turned  liis  eyes,  inflamed  by  anger 
and  strong  drink,  toward  me. 

"  She's  a  d d  bad  investment,"  I  heard 

him  say. 

"  I  told  you  so,"'  said  John,  who  did  not  deign 
to  look  at  me ;   "but  you  were  detennined.  ' 

They  then  sat  drinking  in  silence  for  some 
lime. 

"Sold;"'  said  my  father,  suddenly,  with  an 
oath. 

John  made  no  reply. 

"I  thought  the  county  would  take  to  her. 
She's  one  of  their  own  sort,"  my  father  muttered. 

"  If  it  weren't  for  you  they  might,"  said  John ; 
"  but  they  ain't  overfond  of  her  dear  father."' 

"  Hut  I  sent  out  the  invites  in  her  name." 

"  Ko  go  anyhow." 

"  I  thought  I'd  get  in  with  them  all  right  away, 
hobnob  with  lords  and  baronets,  and  maybe  get 
knighted  on  the  spot." 

John  gave  a  long  scream  of  laughter. 

"You  old  fool!"  he  cried;  ".^o  that's  what 
you're  up  to,  is  it  ?  Sir  John — ha,  ha,  ha !  You'll 
never  be  made  Sir  John  by  parties,  I"m  afraid." 

"  Oh,  don't  you  be  too  sure.  I'm  not  put 
down.  Ill  try  again,"  he  continued,  after  a 
pause.  "  Next  year  TU  do  it.  Why,  she'll  mar- 
ry a  lord,  and  then  won't  I  be  a  lord's  father-in- 
law  !     What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"When  did  you  get  these  notions  in  your 
blessed  head  ?"  asked  .John. 

"Oh,  I've  had  them —  It's  not  so  much  for 
myself,  Johnnie — but  for  you.  For  if  I'm  a  lord 
you'll  be  a  lord  too. " 

"Lord  Potts.     Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

"No,"  said  my  father,  with  some  appearance 
of  vexation,  "not  that;  we'll  take  our  title  the 
way  all  the  lords  do,  from  the  estates.  I'll  be 
Lord  Brandon,  and  when  I  die  you'll  get  the  ti- 
tle." 

"And  that's  your  little  game.     Well,  you've 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


m 


played  inch  good  little  games  in  your  life  that  I've 
got  nothing  to  say,  except—'  Go  it  I' " 

"  She's  the  one  that'll  give  me  a  lift." 

"Well,  she  ought  to  be  able  to  do  Homething." 

By  this  time  I  concluded  tiiat  I  had  dc,.<e  my 
duty  and  prepared  to  retire.  I  did  not  wish  to 
o'  erhear  any  of  their  conversation.  As  I  walked 
oat  of  the  room  I  still  heard  their  remarks : 

"  Blest  if  she  don't  look  as  if  she  thought  1'  2t- 
jelf  the  Queen,"  said  John. 

"  It's  the  diamonds,  Johnnie." 

"No  it  ain't,  it's  the  girl  herself.  -I  don't  like 
the  way  she  has  of  looking  at  me  and  through  m^. " 

"  Why,  that's  the  way  with  that  kind.  It  s 
what  the  lords  hke." 

"  I  don't  like  it,  then,  and  I  tell  you  «Ae'a  rjot 
to  he  took  down .'" 

This  was  the  last  I  heard.  Yet  one  thing  was 
evident  to  me  from  their  conversation.  My  fa- 
ther had  some  wild  plan  of  effecting  an  entrance 
into  society  through  me.  He  thought  that  after 
he  was  once  recognized  he  might  get  sufficient 
influence  to  gain  a  title  and  found  a  family.  I 
also  might  marry  a  lord.  He  thus  dreamed  of 
being  Lord  Brandon,  and  one  of  u,"-  great  nobles 
of  the  land. 

Amidst  my  sadness  I  almost  smiled  at  this 
vain  dream ;  but  yet  John's  words  affected  me 
strongly — "  You've  played  such  good  little  games 
in  your  life."  Well  I  knew  with  whom  they 
were  played.  One  was  with  Despard,  the  other 
with  Brandon. 

This  then  was  the  reason  why  he  had  sent  for 
me  from  China.  The  knowledge  of  his  purpose 
made  ray  life  neither  brighter  nor  darker.  I  still 
lived  on  as  before. 

During  these  months  Mrs.  Compton  s  tender 
devotion  to  me  never  ceased.  I  respected  her, 
and  forbore  to  excite  that  painful  fear  to  which 
she  was  subject.  Once  or  twice  I  forgot  myself 
and  began  speaking  to  her  about  her  strange  po- 
sition here.  She  stopped  ma  with  her  look  of 
alaiTn. 

"Are  you  not  afraid  to  be  kind  to  me?"  I 
asked. 

She  looked  at  me  piteously. 

"  You  are  the  only  one  that  is  kind  to  me,"  I 
continued.     "  How  have  you  the  courage?" 

"I  can  not  help  it,"  she  murmured,  "you  are 
so  dear  to  me. " 

She  sighed  and  was  silent.  The  mystery  about 
har  remained  unchanged ;  her  gentle  nature,  her 
tender  love,  and  her  ever-present  fear.  What  was 
there  in  her  past  that  so  influenced  her  life  ?  Had 
she  too  been  mixed  up  with  the  crime  on  the 
Vishnnf  She  I  impossible.  Y'et  surely  something 
as  dark  as  that  must  have  been  required  to  throw 
so  black  a  cloud  over  her  life.  Yet  what — what 
could  that  have  been  ?  In  spite  of  myself  I  asso- 
ciate her  secret  with  the  tragedy  of  Despard. 
Xhe  was  in  his  family  long.  His  wife  died.  She 
must  have  been  mth  her  at  the  time. 

Tiie  possibilities  that  have  suggested  themselves 
to  my  mind  will  one  day  drive  me  mad.  Alas, 
how  my  heart  yearns  over  that  lonely  man  in  the 
diifting  ship !  And  yet,  merciful  God !  who  am 
I  that  I  should  sympathize  with  him  ?  My  name 
is  infamy,  my  blood  is  pollution. 

I  spoke  to  her  once  in  a  general  way  about  the 
past.  Had  she  ever  been  out  of  England?  I 
asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answeied,  dieamilv. 
U 


"^V^lere?" 

She  looked  at  ne  and  said  not  a  word. 

*  t  anothei  time  I  si>oke  of  China,  and  hinted 
that  perhaps  shi;  too  knew  something  about  the 
I<^t.  The  moment  that  I  said  this  I  repented. 
The  poor  creature  was  shaken  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  sudden  convulsion  of  fear.  This  convulsion 
was  so  terril>le  that  it  seemed  to  mo  as  though 
another  woidd  be  death.  I  tried  to  soothe  her, 
but  she  looked  fearfully  at  me  for  a  long  time 
after. 

At  another  time  I  asked  her  directly  whether 
her  husband  was  alive.  She  looked  at  me  with 
deep  sadness  and  shook  her  head.  I  do  not 
know  what  position  she  holds  here.  She  is  not 
housekeeper;  none  of  the  servants  pay  any  at- 
tention to  her  whatever.  There  is  an  impudent 
head  servant  who  manages  the  rest.  I  noticed 
that  the  man  who  showed  me  to  her  room  when 
I  first  came  treats  her  diflerently  ftom  the  rest. 
Once  or  twice  I  saw  them  talkiag  m  one  of  the 
halls.  There  was  deep  respect  in  his  manner. 
What  he  does  I  have  not  yet  found  out.  Hi  has 
always  shown  great  respect  to  me,  though  why 
I  can  not  imagine.  He  has  the  same  timidity 
of  manner  which  marks  Mrs.  Compton.  His  • 
name  is  Philips. 

I  once  asked  Mrs.  Compton  who  Philips  was, 
and  what  he  did.  She  answered  quickly  that  he 
was  a  kind  of  clerk  to  Mr.  Potts,  and  helped  him 
to  keep  his  accounts. 

"  Has  he  been  with  him  long?"  I  continued. 

"Yes,  a  considerable  time,"  she  said — but  I 
saw  that  the  subject  distressed  her,  so  I  changed 
it. 

For  more  than  three  months  I  remained  in  my 
room,  but  at  last,  through  utter  despair,  I  longed 
to  go  out.  The  noble  grounds  were  there,  high 
hills  froiii  which  the  wide  sea  was  \isible — that 
sea  which  shall  be  associated  with  his  memory 
till  I  die.  A  great  longing  came  over  me  to  look 
upon  its  wide  expanse,  and  feed  my  soul  with 
old  and  dear  memories.  There  it  woidd  lie,  the 
same  sea  from  which  he  so  often  saved  me,  over 
which  we  sailed  till  he  laid  down  his  noble  life 
at  my  feet,  and  I  gave  back  that  life  to  him  again. 

I  used  to  ascend  a  hill  which  was  half  a  mile 
behind  the  Hall  within  the  grounds,  and  pass 
whole  days  there  unmolested.  No  one  took  the 
trouble  to  notice  what  I  did,  at  least  I  thought  so 
till  afterward.  There  for  months  I  used  to  go. 
I  would  sit  and  look  fixedly  upon  the  blue  water, 
and  my  imagination  would  carry  me  far  away  to 
the  South,  to  that  island  on  the  African  shore, 
where  he  once  reclined  in  my  arms,  l)etore  tl:e 
day  when  I  learned  that  my  touch  was  pollution 
to  him — to  that  island  where  I  after^vard  knelt 
by  him  as  he  lay  senseless,  slowly  coming  back 
to  life,  when  if  I  might  but  touch  the  hem  of  his 
garment  it  was  bliss  enough  for  one  day.  Ah 
me,  how  often  I  have  wet  his  feet  with  my  tears — 
poor,  emaciated  feet — and  longed  to  be  able  to 
wipe  them  with  my  hair,  out  dared  not.  He  lay 
unconscious.  He  never  knew  the  anguish  of  my 
love. 

Then  I  was  less  despairing.  The  air  aroand 
was  filled  with  the  echo  of  his  voice ;  x  cjuld 
shut  my  eyes,  and  bring  him  before  me.  His 
face  was  always  visibla  to  my  soul. 

One  day  the  idea  came  into  my  head  to  ex- 
tend my  ramble  into  the  country  oiUs-Ue,  in  or- 
der to  get  a  wider  view      I  went  to  the  gat*. 


106 


CORD  AND  CREESE, 


The  porter  came  out  and  asked  what  I  wanted. 
I  told  him. 

"You  can't  go  out," said  he,  rudely. 

"Why  not?" 

•'  Oh,  them's  Potts's  orders — that's  enough,  I 
think." 

"  He  never  said  so  to  me,"  I  replied,  mildly. 

"That's  no  odds;  he  said  so  to  me,  and  he 
told  me  if  you  made  any  row  to  tell  you  that  you 
were  watched,'and  might  just  as  well  give  up  at 
once." 

"  Watched !"  said  I,  wonderingly. 

"  Yes — for  fear  you'd  get  skittish,  and  try  and 
do  something  foolish.  Old  I'otts  is  bound  to 
keep  you  under  his  thumb." 

I  turned  away.  1  did  not  care  much.  I  felt 
more  surprise  than  any  thing  else  to  think  that 
he  n-ould  take  the  trouble  to  watch  me.  Wheth- 
er he  did  or  not  was  of  little  consequence.  If  I 
could  only  be  where  I  had  the  sea  before  me  it 
was  enough. 

That  day,  on  going  back  to  the  Hall,  I  saw 
John  sitting  on  tlie  piazza.  A  huge  bull-dog 
which  he  used  to  lake  with  him  every  where  was 
lying  at  his  feet.  Just  before  I  reached  the  stejjs 
a  Malay  ser\ant  came  out  of  the  house.  , 

He  was  about  the  same  age  as  John.  I  knew 
him  to  be  a  Malay  when  1  first  saw  him,  and 
concluded  that  my  father  had  picked  him  up  in 
the  East.  He  was  slight  but  very  lithe  and 
muscular,  with  dark  glittering  eyes  and  glisten- 
ing white  teeth.  He  never  looked  at  me  when 
I  met  him,  but  always  at  the  ground,  without 
seeming  to  be  aware  of  my  existence. 

The  Malay  was  passing  out  when  John  called 
out  to  him, 

"Hi,  there,  Vijal!" 

Vijal  looked  carelessly  at  him. 

"Here!"  cried  John,  in  the  tone  with  which 
he  would  have  addressed  his  dog. 

Vijal  stopped  carelessly. 

"Pick  up  my  hat,  and  hand  it  to  me." 

His  hat  had  fr.Uen  down  behind  him.  Vijal 
stood  without  moving,  and  regarded  him  with  an 
evil  smile. 

"D — n  you,  do  you  hear?"  cried  John. 
"Pick  up  my  hat." 

But  Vijal  did  not  move. 

"If  you  don't,  111  set  the  dog  on  you,"  cried 
John,  starting  to  his  feet  in  a  rage. 

Still  Vijal  remained  motionless. 

"Nero!"  cried  John,  furiously,  pointing  to 
Vijal,  "  seize  him,  iiir. " 

The  dog  sprang  up  and  at  once  leaped  upon 
Vijal.  Vijal  warded  oft"  the  assault  with  his 
arm.  The  dog  seized  it,  and  held  on,  as  was 
his  nature.  Vijal  did  not  utter  a  cry,  but  seizing 
the  dog,  he  threw  him  on  his  back,  and  flinging 
himself  upon  him,  fixed  his  own  teeth  in  the 
dog's  throat. 

John  burst  into  a  torrent  of  the  most  frightful 

curses.     He  ordered  V^ijal  to  let  go  of  the  dog. 

Vijal  did  not  move ;  but  while  the  dog's  teeth 

^     were  fixed  in  his  arm,  his  own  were  still  fixed  as 

tenficiourly  in  the  throat  of  the  dog. 

John  sprang  forward  and  kicked  him  with 
frightful  violence.  He  leaped  on  him  and  stamp- 
ed on  him.  At  lasr,  Vijal  drew  a  knife  from  his 
girdle  and  made  a  dash  at  John.  This  fright- 
ened John,  who  fell  back  cursing.  Vijal  then 
raised  his  head. 

The  dog  lay  motionless.     He  was  dead.     Vi- 


jal sat  down,  his  arm  running  blood,  with  the 
knife  in  his  hand,  still  ghiring  at  John. 

During  this  frightful  scene  I  stood  rooted  to 
the  spot  in  horror.  At  last  the  sight  of  Vijal's 
suffering  roused  me.  I  rushed  for>vard,  and, 
tearing  the  scarf  from  my  neck,  knelt  down  and 
reached  out  my  hand  to  stanch  the  blood. 

Vijal  drew  back.  " Poor  Vijal,"  said  I,  "let 
me  stop  this  blood.  I  can  dress  wounds.  How 
you  surt'erl" 

He  looked  at  me  in  bewilderment.  Surprise 
at  hearing  *  kind  word  in  this  house  of  horror 
seemed  to  deprive  hixu  of  speech.  Passively  ho 
let  me  take  his  arm,  and  1  bound  it  up  as  well 
as  I  could. 

All  this  time  John  8tiK)d  cursing,  first  me, 
and  then  Vijal-  I  snid  not  a  word,  and  Vijal 
did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  but  sat  regarding  mo 
with  his  fiery  black  eyes.  When  at  last  I  had 
finished,  he  rose  and  still  stood  staring  at  me. 
I  walked  into  the  house. 

Jolin  hurled  a  torrent  of  imprecations  after 
me.  The  last  words  that  I  heard  were  the  same 
as  he  had  said  once  before.  "  You've  got  to  be 
took  down  ;  and  1 11  be  d — d  if  you  don't  get 
totik  down  precious  soon !" 

1  told  Mrs.  Compton  of  what  had  happened. 
As  u.-^uiil,  she  was  seized  with  terror.    She  looked 
at  me  with  a  glance  of  fearful  apprehension.    At 
last  she  gasped  out : 
"They'll  kill  you." 

"  Let  them,"  said  I,  carelessly ;  "it  wo-dd  be 
better  than  living." 

"Oh  dear!"  groaned  the  poor  old  thing, 
and  sank  sobbing  in  a  chair.  I  did  what  i 
could  to  soothe  her,  but  to  little  purpose.  Si.e 
af.erward  told  me  that  Vijal  had  escaped  further 
punishment  in  spite  of  John's  threats,  and  hinted 
that  they  were  half  afraid  of  him. 

The  next  day,  on  attempting  to  go  out.  Philips 
told  me  that  I  was  not  to  be  [jermiited  to  leave 
the  house.  I  considered  it  the  result  of  John's 
threat,  and  yielded  without  a  word. 

After  this  I  had  to  seek  distraction  from  my 
thoughts  within  the  house.  Now  there  came 
over  me  a  great  longing  for  music.  Once,  when 
in  the  drawing-room  on  that  famous  evening  of 
the  aborti\  e  fete,  which  was  the  only  time  I  ever 
was  there,  I  had  noticed  a  magnificent  grand 
piano  of  most  costly  workmanship.  The  though ; 
of  this  came  to  my  mind,  and  an  unconquerable 
desire  to  try  it  arose.  So  I  went  down  and  be- 
gan to  i>lay. 

It  was  a  little  out  of  tune,  but  the  tone  was 
mar\'e!ously  full  and  sweet.  I  threw  myself  with 
indescribable  delight  into  the  charm  of  the  hour. 
All  the  old  joy  which  music  once  used  to  bring 
came  back.  Imagination,  stimulated  by  the 
swelling  harmonies,  transported  me  far  away 
from  this  prison-house  and  its  hateful  associa- 
tions to  that  happier  time  of  youth  when  not  a, 
thought  of  sorrow  came  over  me.  I  lost  myself 
therein.  Then  that  passed,  that  life  vanished,  and 
the  sea -voyage  began.  The  thoughts  of  my 
mind  and  the  emotions  of  my  heart  passed  down 
to  the  quivering  chords  and  trembled  into  lite 
and  sound. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  had  1)een  playing 
when  suddenly  I  heard  a  sob  behind  me.  I 
started  and  turned.     It  was  Philips. 

He  was  standing  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  a 
rapt  expression  on  his  emaciated  face,  his  handd 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


Mr 


hanging  listless,  and  his  whole  air  that  of  one 
who  had  lost  all  senses  save  that  of  hearing. 
But  as  I  turned  and  stopfjed,  the  spell  that 
bound  him  wu^  broken.  He  sighed  and  looked 
at  me  earnestly. 

"Can  you  sing?" 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  do  bo  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  in  a  faint,  imploring  voice. 

I  began  a  low  song — a  strain  associated  with 
that  same  childhood  of  which  I  had  just  been 
thinking — a  low,  sad  strain,  sweet  to  my  ears 
and  to  my  soul ;  it  spoke  of  peace  and  innocence, 
quiet  home  joys,  and  calm  delights.  My  own 
mind  brought  before  me  the  image  of  the  house 
where  I  had  lived,  with  the  shadow  of  great  trees 
around,  and  gorgeous  flowers  every  where,  where 
the  sultry  air  breathed  soft,  and  beneath  the  hot 
noon  all  men  sank  to  rest  and  slumber. 


When  I  stopped  I  turned  again.  Philips 
had  nut  changed  his  attitude.  But  as  I  turned 
he  uttered  au  exclamation  and  tore  out  his 
watch. 

"Oh,  Heavens! — two  hotu^!"  he  exclaimed. 
"•He'll  kill  me  for  this." 

With  these  words  he  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

I  kept  up  my  music  for  about  ten  days,  when 
one  day  it  was  stopped  forever.  I  was  in  the 
middle  of  a  piece  when  I  heard  heavy  foot8tei)s 
behind  me.  I  turned  and  saw  my  father,  i 
rose  and  looked  at  him  with  an  effort  to  be  re- 
spectful. It  was  lost  on  him,  however.  He  dia 
not  glance  at  me. 

"I  came  up  to  say  to  you,"  said  he,  after  a 
little  hesitation,  "that  I. can't  stand  this  infer- 
nal squall  and  clatter  any  longer.  So  in  futont 
you  just  shut  up."  .  . 


108 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


He  turned  and  left  me.  I  cloted  the  piano 
forever,  and  went  to  my  room. 

The  year  ended,  and  a  new  year  t>egan.  Janu- 
ary iMUsed  away.  My  melancholy  l)egan  to  af- 
fect my  health.  I  scarcely  ever  slept  at  night, 
and  to  eat  was  difficult.  I  ho\>cu  that  I  was  going 
to  die.   Al&i !  death  will  not  come  wiicn  one  culls. 

One  day  I  wiu  in  my  room  lying  on  the  couch 
when  Mrs.  Compton  came.  On  entering  she 
looked  terrified  about  something.  She  ipoke  in 
a  very  agitated  voice:  "They  want  you  down 
stairs." 

"Who?" 

•'  Mr.  Potts  and  John." 

"Well,"  said  I,  and  I  prepared  to  get  read  v. 
"  When  do  they  want  me  ?" 

"  Now,"  said  Mrs.  Compton,  who  by  this  time 
was  crying. 

asked, 


"  Why  are  vou  so  agitated  ?"  I 
"  I  am  afraid  for  vou." 


*'  Why  so?    Can  any  thing  be  worse  ?" 

"  Ah,  my  dearest!  you  don't  know — you  don't 
know." 

I  said  nothing  more,  but  went  down.  On  en- 
tering the  room  I  saw  my  father  and  John  seated 
at  a  table  wirh  brandy  before  them.  A  third 
man  wns  there  He  was  a  thick -set  man  of 
about  the  sanu  height  of  my  fat'i^r,  but  m  e 
mnsciUar,  with  a  strong,  square  jaw,  thick  necK, 
\ow  brow,  and  stem  face.  IVy  father  di '  not 
show  any  actual  ferocity  in  his  face  whatever  he 
felt ;  but  this  man's  face  expressed  relentless  cru- 
elty. 

On  entering  the  room  I  walked  up  a  little  dis- 
tance and  stood  looking  at  them. 

"There,  Clark  ;  what  do  you  thuik  of  that?" 
said  my  father. 

The  name,  Clark,  at  once  made  known  to  me 
who  this  man  was — that  old  associate  of  my  fa- 
ther— his  assistant  on  board  the  Vishnu.  Yet 
the  name  did  not  add  one  whit  to  the  abhor- 
rence wl'.ich  I  felt — my  father  was  woree  even 
than  he. 

The  man  Clark  looked  at  mc  scrutinizingly 
for  some  time. 

"So  that's  the  gal,"  said  he,  at  last. 

"That's  the  gal,"  said  my  father. 

Clark  waved  his  hand  at  me.  "  Turn  round 
sideways,"  said  he. 

I  looked  at  him  quietly  without  moving.  He 
repeated  the  order,  but  I  took  no  notice  of  it. 

"  D— n  her!"  said  he.     "  Is  she  deaf?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  John;  "but  she's 
plucky.  She'd  just  as  soon  you'd  kill  her  as  not. 
There  isn't  any  way  of  moving  her. " 

"Turn round !"  cried  my  father,  angrily. 

I  turned  as  he  said.  "  You  see,"  said  he,  with 
a  laugh,  "she's  been  piously  brought  up;  she 
honors  her  father." 

At  this  Clark  burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

Some  conversation  followed  about  me  as  I 
stood  there.  Clark  then  ordered  me  to  turn 
round  and  face  him.  I  took  no  notice ;  but  on 
my  father's  ordering  it,  I  ol)eyed  as  before.  This 
appeared  to  amuse  them  all  verj-  greatly,  just  as 
the  tricks  of  an  intelligeat  poodle  might  have 
done.  Clark  gave  me  ninny  commands  on  pur- 
pose to  see  my  refusid,  and  have  my  father's  or- 
der which  followed  obeyed. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  at  last,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  "  she  is  a  showy  piece  of  furaituie.  Your 
idea  isn't  a  bad  one  either. " 


He  rose  fr<^m  his  chair  and  came  toward  me. 
I  stood  looking  at  him  with  a  gaze  so  fixed  and 
intense  that  it  seemed  as  if  all  my  being  were 
centred  in  my  eyes. 

He  came  up  and  reached  out  to  take  hold  of 
my  arm.  I  stepped  liack.  He  looked  up  an* 
giily.  But,  for  some  reason,  the  moment  that 
he  caught  sight  of  my  face,  on  expression  of  fear 
passed  over  his. 

"  Heave '•s!"  be  groaned;  "look  at  that 
face!" 

I  saw  my  father  look  at  me.  The  same  lii>r> 
ror  passed  over  his  countenance.  An  awful 
thought  came  to  me.  As  these  men  turned  their 
faces  awny  from  me  in  fear  I  felt  my  strength 
gr^ing.  1  turned  and  nished  from  the  room.  I 
do  not  remember  any  thing  more. 

It  was  early  in  February  when  this  occurred. 
Until  the  beginning  of  August  I  lay  senseless. 
For  the  first  four  months  I  hovered  faintly  be- 
tween life  and  death. 

Why  did  they  not  let  me  die  ?  Why  did  I  not 
die?  Alas!  had  I  died  I  might  now  have  been 
beyond  this  sorrow  :  I  have  waked  to  meet  it  all 
again. 

Mrs.  Compton  says  she  found  mo  on  the  floor 
of  my  0'*n  room,  and  that  I  was  in  a  ki.id  of 
stujMjr.  1  had  no  fever  or  delirium.  A  doctor 
came,  who  said  it  was  a  congestion  of  the  jrain. 
Thoughts  like  mine  might  well  destroy  the  braia 
forever. 

For  a  month  I  have  been  slowly  recovering. 
I  can  now  walk  about  the  room.  I  ki)ow  no- 
thing of  what  is  going  on  in  the  house,  and  wish 
to  know  nothing.  Mrs.  Compton  is  as  devoted 
as  ever. 

I  have  got  thus  far,  and  will  stop  here.  I  have 
been  several  days  >vriting  this.  I  must  stop  till 
I  am  stronger. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   BYZANTINE   BYMNI8T8. 

More  than  a  year  had  passed  since  that  visit 
^to  Thornton  Grange  which  has  already  been  men- 
tioned. Despard  had  not  forgotten  or  neglected 
the  melancholy  case  of  the  Brandon  family.  He 
had  written  in  all  directions,  and  had  gone  on 
ft-equent  visits. 

On  his  return  from  one  of  these  he  went  to  the 
Grange.  Mrs.  7.  homton  was  sitting  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, looking  pensively  out  of  the  window, 
when  she  saw  his  well-known  figure  advancing 
up  the  avenue.  His  face  was  sad,  and  pervaded 
by  a  melancholy  expression,  which  was  noticeable 
now  as  he  walked  along. 

But  when  he  came  into  the  room  that  melan- 
choly face  suddenly  lighted  up  with  the  most 
radiant  joy.  Mre.  Thornton  advanced  to  meet 
him,  and  he  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"I  ought  to  s!iy,  welcome  back  again,"  ^aid 
she,  with  forced  livehness,  "but  you  may  have 
been  in  Holby  a  week  for  all  I  know.  When 
did  you  come  back  ?  Confess  now  that  you  have 
been  secluding  yourself  in  your  study  instead  of 
paying  your  resj)ect3  in  the  proper  quarter." 

Despard  smiled.  "I  arrived  home  at  eleven 
this  morning.  It  is  now  three  p.m.  by  my  watch. 
>ha\\  I  say  how  impatiently  I  have  waited  till 
three  o'clock  should  come  ?" 

"oil  no!  don't  say  any  thing  of  the  sort.    I 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


100 


can  fihafphtf  *n  tlikt  yon  woiiKl  sny.     But  tell  me 
where  yuu  hti\o  lieeii  un  thii«  last  vUit '/" 

"  Wan  luring  like  an  evil  itpirit,,  ttecking  rest 
and  finding  none." 

*'  Have  you  \teen  to  I^)ndt)n  again  ?" 

"Where  have  1  not  been?" 

By  this  time  they  iiiul  seated  themselves. 
"My  Lutjoiiniey,"  said  I)cs|)urd,  "like  my  for- 
mer ones,  was,  of  course,  iihout  the  Unindon  af- 
fiiir.  You  know  that  I  havu  hud  long  conversa- 
tions with  Mr.  Thonitoii  alnxit  it,  and  he  insi.sts 
tliat  nothing  whatever  can  he  done,  liut  you 
know,  also,  that  I  could  not  sit  down  id!y  and 
ci'.lmly  under  this  conviction.  I  have  felt  most 
keenly  the  presence  of  intolenihle  wrong.  Every 
day  1  have  felt  as  if  I  had  shared  in  the  infamy 
of  tliose  who  neglected  that  dying  man.  That 
was  the  reason  why  I  wrote  to  Australia  to  see 
if  the  Brandon  who  was  drowned  was  really  the 
one  I  supposed.  I  heard,  you  know,  that  he  was 
the  same  man,  and  there  is  no  doubt  about  that. 
Then  you  know,  as  1  told  you,  that  I  went  around 
among  ditt'erent  lawyers  to  see  if  any  thing  could 
bfl  done.  Nearly  all  asserted  tliat  no  redress  was 
possible.  'J'hat  is  what  Mr.  Thornton  said, 
'i'here  was  one  who  said  that  if  I  were  lich 
ei  Qusjh  I  miglit  begin  a  prosecution,  but  as  I  am 
i:;)t  ili;li  that  did  me  no  gwKl.  That  man  woulJ 
have  been  glad,  no  doubt,  to  have  midertaken 
such  a  task. ' 

"What  is  there  in  law  that  so  hardens  the 
henrt'/"  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  after  a  pause. 
"  Why  should  it  kill  all  sentiment,  and  destroy 
so  utterly  all  the  more  spiritual  qualities  ?" 

"I  don't  think  that  the  law  does  this  neces- 
sarily. It  depends  after  all  on  the  man  him- 
self. If  I  were  a  lawyer,  I  should  still  love 
music  above  all  things." 

"  But  did  you  ever  know  a  lawyer  who  loved 
music  ?" 

"I  have  not  known  enough  of  them  to  answer 
that.  But  in  England  music  is  not  loved  so  de- 
votedly as  in  other  countries.  Is  it  inconceiva- 
ble that  an  Italian  lawyer  should  love  music  V" 

"  I  don't  know.  Law  is  abhoiTent  to  me.  It 
r^ems  to  be  a  profession  that  kills  the  finer  sen- 
timents." 

' '  Why  so,  more  than  medicine  ?  The  fact  is, 
wiiero  ordinary  men  are  concerned  any  scien- 
tific profession  renders  Art  distasteful.  \t  least 
this  is  so  in  England.  After  all,  most  depends 
on  th  ^  man  himself,  and  one  who  is  bom  with  a 
keen  sensibility  to  the  charms  of  art  will  carry  it 
through  life,  whatever  his  profession  may  he. " 

"  But  suppose  the  man  himself  has  neitlier 
taste,  nor  sensibility,  nor  finy  appreciation  of  the 
beautiful,  nor  any  sympathy  whatever  with  those 
who  love  such  things,  what  then  ?" 

Mrs.  Thornton  spoke  earnestly  as  she  asked 
this. 

"Well,"  said  Despard,  "that  question  an- 
swers itself.  As  a  man  is  bom,  so  he  is ;  and  if 
nature  denies  him  taste  or  sensibility  it  makes  no 
difference  what  is  his  profession." 

Mrs.  Thornton  made  no  reply. 

"  My  last  journey,"  said  Despard,  "was  about 
the  Brandon  case.  I  went  to  London  first  to  see 
if  something  could  not  be  done.  I  had  been 
there  before  on  the  same  errand,  but  without  suc- 
cess.    I  was  eoually  unsuccessful  this  time. 

"I  tried  to  find  out  about  Potts,  the  man  who 
had  purchased  the  estate,  but  learned  that  it  was 


necessary  to  go  to  the  village  of  B*  mdoii.  I 
went  there,  and  made  iiuiuiiies.  Withe  it  ex- 
ceptiim  the  |)eople  sympatliiiced  with  the  unfor- 
tunate family,  and  looked  with  detestation  up  >n 
the  man  who  had  supplanted  them. 

"  I  heard  that  a  young  lady  went  there  lait 
year  who  was  reputed  to  lie  I  ;s  daughter.  Ev- 
ery one  said  that  she  was  extraordinarily  Iteauti 
ful,  and  l(X>ked  like  a  luly.  !She  stop|>ed  at  the 
inn  under  the  care  «f  a  gentlen.in  who  a'com- 
panied  her,  and  wcul  to  the  Ilall.  !?he  has  nev- 
er come  out  of  it  since. 

"The  hindlon  told  me  that  the  gentleman 
was  a  pale,  sad-hxiking  innn,  with  dark  hair  and 
beard.  He  seemed  very  devoted  to  the  young 
lady,  and  parted  with  her  in  meh  icholy  silance. 
His  account  of  this  young  lady  moved  nie  very 
strangely.  He  was  not  at  all  a  sentimental  roan, 
but  a  burly  John  Bull,  which  made  his  story  all 
the  more  touch',  ig.  It  is  strange,  I  must  say,  that 
one  like  her  should  go  into  that  place  and  never 
1)6  seen  again.  I  do  not  know  what  to  think  of 
it,  nor  did  any  of  those  with  whom  I  spoke  in 
the  village." 

"Do  you  suj'pose  that  she  really  W2nt  there 
and  never  car"?  back  ?" 

"That  is  what  they  say." 

"Then  they  must  beUeve  that  she  is  kept 
there." 

"Yes,  so  they  do." 

"  Why  do  they  not  take  some  steps  in  the 
matter?" 

'  What  can  they  do  ?  She  is  his  daughter. 
Some  of  the  villagers  who  have  been  to  the  Hall 
at  different  times  say  that  they  heard  her  play- 
ing and  singing." 

"  That  does  not  sound  like  imprisonment." 

"The  caged  bird  sings." 

"Then  you  think  she  is  a  prisoner?" 

"  I  think  it  odd  that  she  has  never  come  out, 
not  even  to  go  to  church," 

"It  is  odd." 

"This  man  Potts  excited  sufficient  interest  in 
my  mind  to  lead  me  to  make  many  inquiries.  I 
found,  throughout  the  county,  that  every  body 
utterly  despised  him.  They  all  thought  that 
poor  Italph  Brandon  had  been  almast  mad,  and 
by  his  madness  had  rtinied  his  family.  E\ery 
body  believed  that  Potts  had  somehow  deceived 
him,  hat  no  one  could  tell  how.  They  could 
not  bring  any  direct  prooi'  against  him. 

"  But  I  found  out  in  Brandon  the  sad  particu- 
lars of  the  final  fate  of  the  poor  wife  and  her 
unfortrnatL  children.  They  had  been  sent  away 
or  assisted  away  by  this  Potts  to  America,  and 
had  all  died  either  on  the  way  out  or  shortly 
after  they  had  anived,  according  to  the  viUagers. 
I  did  net  tell  them  what  I  knew,  but  left  them 
to  believe  what  they  chose.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  they  must  have  received  this  information 
from  Potts  himself,  who  alone  in  that  poor  con 
munity  would  have  been  able  to  trace  the  fortunes 
of  the  unhappy  emigrants." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  I  have  done  all  that  I  could,"  said  Despard, 
in  a  disconsolate  tone,  "and  I  suppose  nothing 
now  remains  to  be  done.  When  we  hear  again 
from  Paolo  there  may  be  some  new  information 
upon  which  we  can  act."       , 

"And  you  can  go  back  to  your  Byzantine 
poets." 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  assist  me." 


no 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


"  Yon  know  I  nhnll  only  be  too  happy." 

"And  1  shall  be  eienmlly  gm  eful.  Von  8ee, 
as  I  told  you  l)efoie,  there  is  a  tield  of  labor  here 
for  the  lover  of  music  whii  h  i.i  l.ke  a  new  world. 
I  will  give  you  the  grandest  niuHieal  com))osition8 
that  you  have  ever  seen.  I  will  let  you  have  the 
old  hymns  of  the  saints  who  lived  when  C'on- 
stantinople  was  the  only  civilized  spot  in  Eurof)e, 
uiid  the  Christians  theie  were  hurling  back  the 
Mohammedans.  You  shall  sing  the  noblest 
songs  that  you  have  ever  seen." 

**  How — in  Greek.'  You  must  teach  me  the 
alphabet  then." 

"No;  1  will  translate  them  for  you.  The 
Greek  hymns  are  all  in  rhythmical  prose,  like 
the  Te  Jjeum  and  the  Gloria.  A  literal  trans- 
lation can  l)e  sung  as  well  as  the  originals.  Y'ou 
will  then  enter  into  the  mind  and  spirit  of  the 
ancient  Eastern  Church  before  the  days  of  the 
8i'lii>m. 

'"Yes,"  continued  Despard,  with  an  enthu- 
si:)sm  which  he  did  not  care  to  conceid,  "we 
will  go  together  at  this  sweet  task,  and  we  will 
fing  the  Kud'  iKarjnjv  t'iftfpav,  which  holds  the 
same  place  in  the  Greek  ("hurch  that  the  Te 
iJeum  does  in  ours.  We  will  chant  together  the 
Golden  Canon  of  St.  John  Damascene  —  the 
Queen  of  Canons,  the  grandest  song  of  '  Christ 
ii  risen'  that  mortals  ever  composed.  Your 
heart  and  mine  will  beat  together  with  one  feel- 
ing at  the  sublime  choral  strain.  We  will  sing 
ihe  'Hymn  of  Victory.'  We  will  go  together 
over  the  songs  of  pjt.  Cosmas,  ^t.  Iheophanes, 
and  St.  The<jdore;  .st.  Gregorj*,  St.  Anatobus, 
and  St.  Andrew  of  Crete  shall  inspire  us ;  and 
tiie  thoughts  that  have  kindled  the  hearts  of 
martyrs  at  the  stake  shall  exalt  our  souls  to 
heaven.  But  I  have  more  than  this.  I  have 
some  compositions  of  my  own ;  poor  ones,  in- 
deed, yet  an  ettoit  in  the  right  way.  They  are 
a  collection  of  tlio^e  hymns  of  tlie  Primitive 
Church  which  are  contained  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment. I  have  tried  tp  set  them  to  mu^ic.  They 
are:  'Worthy  is  the  Lamb,'  'Unto  11  im  that 
loved  U3,'  'Great  and  marvelous  are  thy  works,' 
and  the  'Trisagion.'  Yes,  we  will  go  together 
at  this  lofty  and  heavenly  work,  and  I  shall  be 
able  to  gain  a  new  interpretation  from  your  sym- 
pathy.' 

Despard  sjK)ke  with  a  vehement  enthusiasm 
that  kindled  his  eyes  with  unusual  lustre  and 
spread  a  glow  over  his  pale  face.  He  looked  like 
some  devotee  under  a  sudden  inspiration.  Mrs. 
Thornton  caught  all  his  enthusiasm ;  her  eyes 
brightened,  and  her  face  also  flushed  with  ex- 
citement. 

"  Whenever  you  are  ready  to  lead  me  into  that 
new  world  of  music,"  said  she,  "I  am  ready  to 
follow." 

"Are  you  willing  to  begin  next  Monday  ?  ' 

"Yes.     All  my  time  is  my  own. " 

"  Then  I  will  come  for  you." 

"Then  I  will  be  waiting  for  yon.  By-the- 
wav,  are  you  engaged  for  to-night  ?" 

"No;  why?" 

"There  is  going  to  be  a  fete  champetre.  It 
is  a  ridiculous  thing  for  the  Holby  people  to  do ; 
biic  1  have  to  go  to  play  the  patroness.  Mr. 
i'ljomton  does  not  want  to  go.  Would  you 
sacrifice  yourself  to  my  necessities,  and  allow  me 
your  escort  ?" 

"  Would  a  thirsty  man  be  willing  to  accept  a 


cooling  draught  ?"'  said  Despard,  eagerly.  ' '  Yo* 
open  heaven  before  me,  and  ask  me  if  I  will  en- 
ter." 

His  voice  trembled,  and  he  paused. 

"  You  never  forget  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton, with  slight  agitation,  looking  nway  aa  she 
spoke. 

"  1  will  be  back  at  any  hour  you  say." 

"  You  will  do  no  such  thing.  Since  you  are 
here  you  must  remain  and  dine,  and  then  go  with 
me.  Do  you  suppose  1  would  trust  you  ?  Why, 
if  I  let  you  go,  you  might  keep  me  waiting  a 
whole  hour." 

"  Well,  if  your  will  is  not  law  to  me  what  is  ? 
Speak,  and  your  servant  obeys.  To  stay  will  only 
add  to  my  hbi)])iness." 

"Then  let  me  make  you  happy  by  forcing  you 
to  stay." 

Despard's  face  showed  his  feelings,  and  to 
judge  by  its  expression  his  hmguage  had  not 
been  extravagant. 

The  afieriioi.n  passed  quietly.  Dinner  was 
served  up.  Thornton  crnie  in,  and  gi'eeted  Des- 
pard with  his  usual  abstraction,  leaving  his  wife 
to  do  the  agreeable.  After  dinner,  as  usual,  he 
prepared  for  a  nap.  and  l-'esjiurd  and  Mre.  Thorn- 
ton started  for  the  fOte. 

It  was  to  be  in  some  gardens  at  the  other  end 
of  Holby,  along  the  shoie.  The  townspeople 
had  recently  formed  a  jiaik  there,  and  this  was 
one  of  the  preliminaries  to  its  formal  inaugura- 
tion. The  trees  weie  hung  with  innumerable 
lamps  of  varied  ccjlors.  There  were  bands  of 
music,  and  triumphal  aiches,  and  gay  festoons, 
and  wreaths  of  flowere,  and  every  thing  that  is 
usual  at  such  a  time. 

On  arriving,  Desjjard  assisted  Mrs.  Thornton 
from  the  carriage  and  offered  his  arm.  She  took 
it,  but  her  hand  rested  so  lightly  on  it  that  its 
touch  was  scarce  perceptible.  They  walked 
around  through  the  illuminated  paths.  Great 
crowds  of  jieople  were  there.  All  looked  with 
respectful  pleasure  at  Mrs.  Thornton  and  the 
Kector. 

"You  ought  to  be  glad  that  you  have  come,* 
said  she.  "St  ^  how  these  poor  people  feel  it: 
We  are  not  persons  of  very  gi-eat  consequence, 
yet  our  presence  is  marked  and  enjoyed." 

"All  places  are  alike  to  me,"  answered  Des- 
pard, "when  I  am  with  you.  Still,  there  are 
circumstances  about  this  which  will  make  it  foi- 
ever  memorable  to  me. " 

"  Look  at  those  lights, "exclaimed  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton, suddenly  ;   "  what  varied  colors  I" 

"Let  us  walk  into  that  grotto," said  Despard, 
turning  toward  a  cool,  dark  place  which  lay  be- 
fore them. 

Here,  at  the  end  of  the  grotto,  was  a  tree,  at 
the  foot  of  which  was  a  seat.  They  sat  down 
and  staid  for  hours.  In  the  distance  the  lights 
twinkled  and  music  arose,  'i  hey  said  little,  but 
listened  to  the  confused  mnrnnir  which  in  the 
pauses  of  the  music  came  uj>  from  afar. 

Then  they  rose  and  walked  back.  Entering 
the  principal  jjath  a  great  crowd  streamed  o;i 
which  they  had  to  face. 

Despard  sighed.  "  You  and  I,"  said  he,  stoop- 
ing low  and  speaking  in  a  sad  voice,  "  are  cou- 
])elied  to  go  against  the  tide." 

'■    hall  we  turn  back  and  go  with  it?" 

'•  i>  e  can  not." 

"  i>o  you  wish  to  turn  ij^iuc? ' 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


Ill 


"We  can  not.  We  mnst  walk  against  the 
tide,  and  against  the  rush  of  men.  If  we  turn 
aside  there  is  nothing  but  darlcness. " 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  reached  the 
gate. 

"ITie  carriage  has  not  come,"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton. 


*'  Do  you  prefer  riding?" 
"No.'^ 


"  It  is  not  far.     Will  you  walk  ?" 

"With  pleasure." 

They  walked  on  slowly.  About  half-way  they 
met  the  carriage.  Mrs.  Thornton  ordered  it 
back,  saying  that  she  would  walk  the  rest  of 
the  way. 

They  walked  on  slowly,  saying  so  little  that 
at  last  Mrs.  Thornton  began  to  sjjeak  about  the 
music  which  they  had  proposed  to  undertake. 
Despj"''"':  "nthusiasm  seemed  to  have  left  him. 
His  repi.  .ere  vague  and  general.  On  reach- 
ing the  gi.te  he  stood  still  for  a  moment  under 
the  trees  and  half  turned  toward  her.  "You 
don't  say  any  thing  about  the  music  ?"  said  she. 

"That's  because  I  am  so  stupid.  I  have  lost 
my  head.  I  am  not  capable  of  a  single  coherent 
idea. " 

"You  are  thinking  of  something  else  all  the 
time." 

"  My  brain  is  in  a  whirl.  Yes,  I  am  thinking 
of  something  else." 

"Of  what?" 

"  I'm  afraid  to  say." 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  silent.  They  entered  the 
gate  and  walked  up  the  avenue,  slowly  and  in  si- 
lence. Despard  made  one  or  two  efforts  to  stop, 
and  then  continued.  At  last  they  reached  the 
door.  The  lights  were  streaming  brightly  fi'om 
the  window.     Despard  stood,  silently. 

"  Will  you  not  come  in?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  he,  dreamily.  "It  is 
rather  too  late,  and  I  must  go.     Good-night. " 

He  held  out  his  hand.  She  offered  hers,  and 
he  took  it.  He  held  it  long,  and  half  stooped  as 
though  he  wished  to  say  something.  8he  felt 
the  throbbing  of  his  heart  in  his  hand  as  it 
clasped  hers.  She  said  nothing.  Nor  did  Des- 
jmrd  seem  able  to  say  any  thing.  At  last  he 
let  go  her  hand  slowly  and  reluctantly. 

"  You  will  not  forget  the  music?"  said  he. 

"No." 

"Good-night." 

He  took  her  hand  again  in  both  of  his.  As 
the  light  shone  through  the  windows  she  saw  his 
face — a  face  full  of  longing  beyond  words,  and 
sadness  unutterable. 

"  Good-night,"  she  faltered. 

He  let  go  her  hand,  and  turning  away,  was 
lost  amidst  the  gloom.  She  waited  till  the  sound 
of  his  footsteps  had  died  away,  and  then  went 
into  the  house. 

On  tlie  following  morning  Despard  was  walk- 
ing along  when  he  met  her  suddenly  at  a  comer 
of  the  street.  He  stopped  with  a  radiant  face, 
and,  shaking  hands  with  her,  for  a  moment  was 
unable  to  speak. 

"This  ift  too  much  happiness,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  It  is  like  a  ray  of  light  to  a  poor  captive  when 
you  burst  r.pon  me  so  suddenly.  Where  are  you 
going?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  only  going  to  do  a  little  shopping." 

"  I'm  sure  I  wish  that  I  could  accompany  you 
to  protect  you." 


"Well,  why  not?" 

"  On  the  whole,  1  think  that  shopping  is  not 
my  forte,  and  that  my  presence  would  not  be 
essential." 

He  turned,  however,  and  walked  with  her 
some  distance,  as  far  as  the  farthest  shop  in  the 
town.  They  talked  gayly  and  pleasantly  about 
the  fSte.  "You  will  not  forget  the  music," 
said  he,  on  parting.  "Will  you  come  next 
Monday  ?  If  you  don't,  I  won't  be  responsible 
for  the  consequences." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Sir,  that  you  expect 
me  to  come  alone  ?" 

"  I  did  not  hope  for  any  thing  else." 

"Why,  of  course,  you  must  call  for  me.  If 
you  do  not  I  won't  go." 

Despard's  eyes  brightened. 

"Oh,  then,  siiice  you  allow  me  so  sweet  a 
privilege,  I  will  go  and  accompany  you." 

"  If  you  fail  me  I  will  stay  at  home,"  said  she, 
laughingly. 

He  did  not  fail  her,  but  at  the  appointed  time 
Went  up  to  the  Grange.  Some  strangers  were 
there,  and  Mrs.  Thornton  gave  him  a  look  of 
deep  disappointment.  The  strangers  were  evi- 
dently going  to  spend  the  day,  so  Despard,  after 
a  short  call,  withdrew.  Before  he  left,  Mrs. 
Thornton  absented  herself  on  some  pretext  for  a 
few  moments,  and  as  he  quitted  the  room  she 
went  to  the  door  with  him  and  gave  him  a  note. 

He  walked  straight  home,  holding  the  note  in 
his  hands  till  he  reached  his  study;  then  he 
locked  himself  in,  opened  the  note,  and  read  as 
follows : 

"Dear  Me.  Despard, — How  does  it  hap- 
pen that  things  turn  out  just  as  they  ought  not  ? 
I  was  so  anxious  to  go  with  you  to  the  church 
to-day  about  our  music.  I  know  my  own  pow- 
ers ;  they  are  not  contemptible ;  they  are  not 
uncultivated ;  they  are  simply,  and  wholly,  and 
irretrievably  commonplace.  That  much  I  deem 
it  mj'  duty  to  inform  you. 

"These  wretched  people,  who  have  spoiled  a 
day's  pleasure,  dropped  upon  me  as  suddenly  as 
though  they  had  come  from  the  skies.  They 
leave  on  Thursday  morning.  Come  on  Thursday 
afternoon.  If  you  do  not  I  will  never  forgive 
you.  On  that  day  give  up  your  manuscripts  and 
books  for  music  and  the  organ,  and  allot  some 
portion  of  your  time  to.      Yours, 

''  T   T*  '* 

On  Thursday  Despard  called,  and  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton was  able  to  accompany  him.  ITie  church 
was  an  old  one,  and  had  one  of  the  best  organs 
in  Wales.  Despard  was  to  play  and  she  to  sing. 
He  had  his  music  ready,  and  the  sheets  were 
carefully  and  legibly  written  out  from  the  precious 
old  Greek  scores  which  he  loved  so  dearly  and 
pri-'ed  m  highly. 

They  began  with  the  canon  for  Easter-day  of 
St.  John  Damascene,  who,  according  to  Des- 
pard, was  the  best  of  the  Eastern  hymnists.  Mrs. 
Thornton's  voice  was  rich  and  full.  As  she  came 
to  the  ava(TT(i(Te<i>c  tjfiipa — Resurrection  Day — it 
took  up  a  tone  of  indescribable  exultation,  blend- 
ing with  the  triumph  peal  of  the  organ.  Despard 
added  his  own  voice — a  deep,  strong,  full-toned 
basso — and  their  blended  strains  bore  aloft  th« 
snblimest  of  utterances,  "Christ  is  arisen !" 

Then  followed  a  more  mournful  chant,  full  of 
sadness  and  profound  melancholy,  the  rikivToiov 


113 


CORD  AND  CRKKSE. 


AND   THEIR   BLENDED   STRAINS   BORE   ALOFT   THE   SCBLIMEST   OF   UTTERANCES, 

IS  arisen!'"' 


CHHIST 


ufTiraafiov — the  Last  Kiss — the  hymn  of  the  dead, 
by  the  same  poet. 

Then  followed  a  sublimer  strain,  the  hymn  of 
St.  Theodore  on  the  Judgment — rijv  I'liupnv  Ti)v 
t^piKTTiv  —  where  all  the  hon-ors  of  the  day  of 
doom  are  set  forth.  The  chant  Avas  commensu- 
rate with  the  dread  splendors  of  the  theme.  The 
voices  of  the  two  singers  blended  in  perfect  con- 
cord. The  sounds  which  were  thus  wTOught  out 
bore  themselves  through  the  vaulted  aisles,  return- 
ing again  to  their  own  ears,  imparting  to  their  own 
hearts  something  of  the  awe  with  which  imagina- 
tion has  enshrouded  the  Day  of  days,  and  giving 
to  their  voices  that  saddened  cadence  which  the 
sad  spirit  can  convey  to  its  material  utterance. 


Despard  then  produced  some  compositions  of 
his  own,  made  after  the  manner  of  the  Eastern 
chants,  which  he  insisted  were  the  primitive  songs 
of  the  eaiiy  Church.  The  words  were  those  frag- 
ments of  hymns  which  are  imbedded  in  the  text 
of  the  New  Testament.  He  chose  first  the  song 
of  the  angels,  which  was  first  sung  by  "a  great 
voice  out  of  heaven" — ISov, »)  aicTivrj  rov  Btov — Be- 
hold, the  tabernacle  of  God  is  with  men ! 

The  chant  was  a  maivelons  one.  It  spoke  of 
sonow  past,  of  grief  stayed,  of  misery  at  an  end 
forever,  of  tears  dried,  and  a  time  when  "thera 
shall  be  no  more  death,  neither  sorrow  nor  cry- 
ing." There  was  a  gentle  murmur  in  the  flow 
of  that  solemn,  soothing  strain  which  waa.lik:; 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


113 


the  sighing  of  the  evening  wind  among  the  hoary 
forest  trees ;  it  soothed  and  comfuned ;  it  brought 
hope,  and  holy  calm,  and  sweet  peace. 

As  Despard  rose  from  the  organ  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton looked  at  him  with  moistened  eyes. 

"I  do  not  know  whether  your  song  brings 
calm  or  unrest,"  said  she,  sadly,  "  but  after  sing- 
ing it  I  would  wish  to  die." 

"  It  is  not  the  music,  it  is  the  words,"  answer- 
ed Despard,  "  which  bring  before  us  a  time  when 
there  shall  be  no  sorrow  or  sighing." 

"  May  Buch  a  time  ever  be  ?"  murmured  she. 

"That,"  he  replied,  "it  is  ours  to  aim  after. 
There  is  such  a  world.  In  that  world  all  wrongs 
will  be  righted,  friends  will  be  reunited,  and  those 
severed  here  through  all  this  earthly  life  will  be 
joined  for  evermore. " 

Their  eyes  met.  Their  spirit  lived  and  glowed 
in  that  gaze.  It  was  sad  beyond  expressioi  ,  but 
each  one  held  commune  with  the  other  in  a  mute 
intercourse,  more  eloquent  than  words. 

Despard's  whole  frame  trembled.  "Will  you 
sing  the  Ave  Maria  f"  he  asked,  in  a  low,  scarce 
audible  voice.  Her  head  dropped.  She  gave 
a  convulsive  sigh.  He  continued:  "We  used 
to  sing  it  in  the  old  days,  the  sweet,  never-for- 
gotten days  now  past  forever.  We  sang  it  here. 
We  stood  hand  in  hand." 

His  voice  faltered. 

"  Sing,"  he  said,  after  a  time. 

"I  can  not." 

Despard  sighed.  "Perhaps  it  is  better  not; 
for. I  feel  as  though,  if  you  were  to  sing  it,  my 
heart  would  break." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  hearts  can  break?"  she 
asked  gently,  but  with  indescribable  pathos. 

Despard  looked  at  her  mournfully,  and  said  not 
a  word. 


CHAPTER  XXVI, 

CLASPED   HANDS. 

Their  singing  went  on. 

They  used  to  meet  once  a  week  and  sing  in 
the  church  at  the  organ.  Despard  always  went 
up  to  the  Grange  and  accompanied  her  to  the 
church.  Yet  he  scarcely  ever  went  at  any  other 
time.  A  stronger  connection  and  a  deeper  fa- 
miliarity arose  bet\veen  them,  which  yet  was  ac- 
companied by  a  profound  reverence  on  Despard's 
part,  that  never  diminished,  but  as  the  familiar- 
ity increased  only  grew  more  tender  and  more  de- 
voted. 

There  were  many  things  about  their  music 
which  he  had  to  say  to  her.  It  constituted  a 
common  bond  between  them  on  which  they  could 
talk,  and  to  which  they  could  always  revert.  It 
formed  a  medium  for  the  communion  of  soul — a 
lofty,  spiritual  intercourse,  Avhere  they  seemed 
to  blend,  even  as  their  voices  blended,  in  a  purer 
realm,  free  from  the  trouble  of  earth. 

Amidst  it  all  Despard  had  so  much  to  tell  her 
about  the  nature  of  the  Eastern  music  that  he 
wrote  out  a  long  letter,  which  he  gave  her  as 
they  parted  after  an  unusually  lengthy  practice. 
Part  of  it  was  on  the  subject  of  music,  and  the 
rest  of  a  different  character. 

The  next  time  that  they  met  she  gave  him  a 
note  in  response. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Despard — Whv  am  I  not  a  ser- 


aph, endowed  with  musical  powers  beyond  mor- 
tal reach  ?  You  tell  me  many  things,  and  never 
seem  to  imagine  tliat  they  are  all  beyond  me. 
You  never  seem  to  think  that  I  am  hopelessly 
commonplace.  You  are  kind  in  doing  what  you 
do,  but  where  is  the  good  where  one  is  so  stupid 
as  I  am  ? 

"1  suppose  you  have  given  up  visiting  the 
Grange  forever.  I  don't  call  your  coming  to 
take  me  to  the  church  visits.  I  suppose  I  may 
as  well  give  you  up.  It  is  as  difficult  to  get  you 
here  as  if  you  were  the  Grand  Lama  of  Thibet. 

"Amidst  all  my  stupidities  I  have  two  or 
three  ideas  which  may  be  useful  in  our  music,  if 
I  can  only  put  them  in  practice.  Bear  with  me, 
and  deal  gently  with 

"  Yours,  despondingly,  T.  T." 

To  this  Despard  replied  in  a  note  which  he 
gave  her  at  their  next  meeting,  calling  her  "  Dear 
Seraph,"  and  signing  him  self  "Grand  Lama." 
After  this  they  always  call  2d  each  other  by  these 
names.  Grand  Lama  was  an  odd  name,  but  it 
became  tiie  sweetest  of  sounds  to  Despard  since 
it  was  uttered  by  her  lips — the  sweetest,  the  most 
musical,  and  the  tenderest.  As  to  himself  he 
knew  not  what  to  call  this  dear  companion  of  his 
youth,  but  the  name  .'•eraph  came  into  use,  and 
grew  to  be  associated  with  her,  until  at  last  he 
never  called  her  any  thing  else. 

Yet  after  this  he  used  to  go  to  the  Grange 
more  frequently.  He  could  not  stay  away.  His 
steps  wandered  there  irresistibly.  An  uncon- 
trollable impulse  forced  him  there.  She  was  al- 
ways alone  awaiting  him,  generally  with  a  sweet 
confusion  of  face  and  a  tenderness  of  greeting 
which  made  him  feel  ready  to  fall  on  his  knees 
before  her.  How  else  could  he  feel?  Was  she 
not  always  in  his  thoughts?  Were  not  all  his 
sleeping  hours  one  long  dream  of  her?  Were 
not  all  his  waking  thoughts  filled  with  her  radi- 
ant presence  ? 

"  How  is  it  under  our  control  .         '    "    : 
To  love  or  not  to  love?" 

Did  he  know  what  it  was  that  he  felt  for  her? 
He  never  thought.  Enough  that  he  felt.  And 
that  feeling  was  one  long  agony  of  intense  long- 
ing and  j'earning  after  her.  Had  not  all  his  life 
been  filled  by  that  one  bright  image  ? 

Youth  gave  it  to  him.  After-years  could  not 
efface  it.  The  impress  of  her  face  was  upon  his 
heart.  Her  voice  was  always  in  his  ears.  Every 
word  that  she  had  ever  spoken  to  him  was  treas- 
ured up  in  his  memory  and  heart  with  an  avarico 
of  love  which  prevented  any  one  word  from  even 
being  forgotten. 

At  church  and  at  home,  during  service  and 
out  of  it,  in  the  street  or  in  the  study,  he  saw 
only  one  face,  and  heard  only  one  voice.  Amidst 
the  bustle  of  committee  meetings  he  was  con- 
scious of  her  image — a  sweet  face  smiling  on 
him,  a  tender  voice  saying  "Lama."  Was  there 
ever  s<i  musical  and  so  dear  a  word  as  "  Lama  ?" 
For  him,  never. 

The  hunger  of  his  longing  grew  stronger  every 
day.  That  strong,  proud,  self-secluded  nature 
of  his  was  most  intense  in  all  its  feelings,  and 
dwelt  with  concentrated  passion  upon  this  one 
object  of  its  idolatrj*.  He  had  never  had  any 
other  object  but  this  one. 

A  happy  boyhood  passed  in  the  society  of  this 


114 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


■weet  playmate,  then  a  yonng  girl  of  his  own 
age;  a  happy  boyhood  here  in  Holby,  where 
they  had  always  been  inseparable,  wandering 
hand  in  hand  along  the  shore  or  over  the  hills ; 
a  happy  boyhood  where  she  was  the  one  ana 
only  companion  whom  he  knew  or  cared  for — 
this  was  the  sole  legacy  of  his  early  life.  Leav- 
ing Ilolby  he  had  left  her,  but  had  never  forgot- 
ten her.  He  had  carried  with  him  the  tender 
memory  of  this  bright  being,  and  cherished  his 
undying  fondness,  not  knowing  what  that  fond- 
ness meant.  He  had  returned  to  find  her  mar- 
ried, and  severed  from  him  forever,  at  least  in 
this  life.  When  he  found  that  he  had  lost  her 
he  began  to  understand  hov,r  dear  she  was.  All 
lite  stood  before  him  aimless,  pointless,  and 
meaninsless  without  her.  He  came  back,  but 
the  old  intercourse  Vould  not  be  renewed ;  she 
could  not  be  his,  and  he  could  onl^  live,  and 
love,  and  endure.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
wiser  if  he  had  at  once  left  Holby  and  sought  out 
some  other  abode.  But  the  discovery  of  his  love 
was  gradual ;  it  came  through  sb  Peering  and  an- 
guish ;  and  when  he  knew  that  his  love  was  so 
intense  it  was  then  impossible  to  leave.  To  be 
near  her,  to  breathe  the  same  air,  to  see  her  face 
occasionally,  to  nurse  his  old  memories,  to  hoard 
up  new  remembrances  of  her  words  and  looks — 
tliese  now  became  the  chief  occupation  of  his 
hours  of  solitude,  and  the  only  happiness  left 
him  in  his  life. 

One  day  he  went  up  with  a  stronger  sense  of 
desolation  in  his  heart  than  usual,  going  up  to 
see  her  in  order  to  get  consolation  from  the  sight 
of  her  face  and  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Their 
former  levity  had  given  place  to  a  seriousness  of 
manner  which  was  very  different.  A  deep,  in- 
tense joy  shone  in  the  eyes  of  each  at  meeting, 
but  that  quick  repartee  and  light  badinage  which 
they  had  used  of  old  had  been  dropped. 

Music  was  the  one  thing  of  which  they  could 
speak  without  fear.  Despard  could  talk  of  his 
Byzantine  poet?,  and  the  chants  of  the  Eastern 
Church,  without  being  in  danger  of  reawakening 
painful  memories.  The  piano  stood  close  bj', 
and  always  afforded  a  convenient  mode  of  dis- 
tracting attention  when  it  became  too  absorbed  in 
one  another. 

For  Mrs.  Thornton  did  not  repel  him ;  she  did 
not  resent  his  longing ;  she  did  not  seem  forget- 
ful of  what  he  so  well  remembered.  How  was  it 
with  her  who  had  given  her  hand  to  another? 

"What  she  felt  the  while 
Dare  he  think?" 

Yet  there  were  times  when  he  thought  it  pos- 
sible that  she  might  feel  as  he  did.  The  thought 
brought  joy,  but  it  also  brought  fear.  For,  if 
the  struggle  against  this  feehng  needed  all  the 
strength  of  his  nature,  what  must  it  cost  her? 
If  she  had  such  a  stniggle  as  he,  how  could  she 
endure  it?  Then,  as  he  considered  this,  he 
thought  to  himself  that  he  would  rather  she  would 
not  love  him  than  love  him  at  such  a  cost.  He 
was  willing  to  sacrifice  his  own  heart.  He  wish- 
ed only  to  adore  her,  and  was  contert  that  she 
should  receive,  and  permit,  and  accept  his  adora- 
tion, herself  unmoved — a  passionless  divinity. 

In  their  intercourse  it  was  strange  how  fre- 
quently there  were  long  pauses  of  perfect  silence, 
during  which  neither  spoke  a  word.  Some- 
times each  sat  looking  at  the  floor ;  sometimes 


they  looked  at  one  another,  as  though  they  could 
read  each  other's  thoughts,  and  by  the  mere  gaze 
of  their  earnest  eyes, could  hold  ample  spiritual 
communion. 

On  one  such  occasion  they  stood  by  the  win- 
dow looking  out  upon  the  lawn,  but  seeing  no- 
thing in  that  abstracted  gaze.  Despard  stood 
fiicing  her,  close  to  her.  Her  hand  was  hanging 
by  her  side.  He  stooped  and  took  that  little 
slender  hand  in  his.  As  he  did  so  he  trembled 
from  head  to  foot.  As  he  did  so  a  faint  flush 
passed  over  her  face.  Her  head  fell  forward. 
Despard  held  her  hand  and  she  did  not  withdraw 
it.  Despard  drew  her  slightly  toward  him.  l?he 
looked  up  into  his  facs  with  large,  eloquent 
eyes,  sad  beyond  all  description,  yet  speaking 
things  which  thriUed  his  soul.  He  looked  down 
upon  her  with  eyes  that  told  her  all  that  was  in 
his  heart.     She  turned  her  head  away. 

Despard  clung  to  her  hand  as  though  that  hand 
were  his  life,  his  hope,  his  joy — as  though  that 
alone  could  save  him  from  some  abyss  of  despair 
into  which  he  was  falling.  His  lips  rioved.  In 
vain.  No  audible  sound  broke  that  intense  still- 
ness in  which  the  beating  and  throbbing  of  those 
two  forlorn  hearts  could  be  heard.  His  lips 
moved,  but  all  sound  died  away  upon  them. 

At  last  a  stronger  effort  broke  the  silence. 

"Teresa!" 

It  was  a  strange  tone,  a  tone  of  longing  unut- 
terable, a  tone  like  that  which  a  dying  man  might 
use  in  calling  before  him  one  most  dear.  And 
all  the  pent-up  feeling  of  years  rushed  forth  in 
concentrated  energy,  and  was  borne  to  her  ears  in 
the  sound  of  that  one  word.  She  looked  up  with 
the  same  glance  as  before. 

"Little  playmate,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  infi- 
nite sweetness,  "  have  you  ever  forgotten  the  old 
days?  Do  you  remember  when  you  and  I  last 
stood  hand  in  hand  ?" 

His  voice  sounded  like  the  utterance  of  tears, 
as  though,  if  he  could  have  wept,  he  would  then 
have  wept  as  no  man  wept  before ;  but  his  eyes 
were  dry  through  his  manhood,  and  all  that  tears 
can  express  were  shown  forth  in  his  tone. 

As  he  began  to  speak  her  head  fell  again.  As 
he  ended  she  looked  up  as  before.  Her  lips 
moved.     She  whispered  but  one  word : 

"Courtenay!" 

She  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  and  sank  into  a 
chair.  And  Despard  stood,  not  daring  even  to 
soothe  her,  for  fear  lest  in  that  vehement  convuK 
sion  of  his  soul  all  his  self-command  should  give 
way  utterly. 

At  length  Mrs.  Thornton  rose.  "Lama," 
said  she,  at  last,  in  a  low,  sad  voice,  "let  us  go 
to  the  piano." 

"Will  you  sing  the  Ave  Maria  t"  he  asked, 
mournfully. 

"I  dare  not,"  said  she,  hastily.  "No,  any 
thing  but  that.  I  will  sing  Rossini's  Cujus  Ani- 
mam." 

Then  followed  those  words  which  tell  in  lofty 
strains  of  a  broken  heart : 

Cnjns  animam  geraentem 
CoDtristatam  et  flebentem 
Fertransivit  gladias ! 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


lis 


CHAPTER  XXVII, 

JOCTRNAL   OF   PAOLO   LANOHETTI. 

When  Mrs.  Thornton  saw  Despard  next  she 
rfiowed  him  a  short  note  which  she  had  just  re- 
ceived from  her  brother,  accompanying  liis  jour- 
nal. Nearly  two  years  had  elapsed  since  she  had 
last  heard  from  him. 

His  journal  was  written  as  before  at  long  in- 
ter\iils,  and  was  as  follows : 

Hdlifax,  April  10,  1847. — I  exist  here,  but 
nothing  more.  Nothing  is  offered  by  this  small 
colonial  town  that  can  afford  interesc.  Life  goes 
on  monotonously.  The  officers  and  their  families 
are  what  they  are  every  where.  They  are  amia- 
ble and  pleasant,  and  try  to  get  the  best  out  of 
life.  The  townspeople  are  hospitable,  nd  there 
is  much  refinement  among  them. 

But  I  live  for  the  most  part  in  a  cottage  out- 
side of  the  town,  where  I  can  be  secluded  and 
fiee  from  obsenation.  Near  my  house  is  the 
Northwest  Arm.  I  cross  it  in  a  boat,  and  am 
at  once  in  a  savage  wilderness.  From  the  sum- 
mit of  a  hill,  .,.,  -'-priately  named  Mount  Misery, 
I  can  look  down  upon  this  city  which  is  bordered 
by  such  a  wilderness. 

The  winter  has  passed  since  my  last  entry,  and 
nothing  has  occurred.  I  have  learned  to  skate. 
I  went  out  on  a  moose-hunt  with  Colonel  Des- 
pard.  The  gigantic  boms  of  a  moose  which  I 
killed  are  now  over  the  door  of  my  studio.  I 
have  joined  in  some  festivities,  and  have  done 
the  honors  of  my  house.  It  is  an  old-fashioned 
v>ooden  structure  which  they  call  the  Priory. 

So  the  winter  has  passed,  and  April  is  now  here. 
In  this  country  there  is  no  spring.  Snow  is  yet 
on  the  ground.  Winter  is  transfomed  gradually 
till  summer.  I  must  keep  up  my  fires  till  June, 
they  say. 

During  the  winter  I  have  gutrded  my  treasure 
well.  I  took  a  house  on  purpose  to  have  a  home 
for  her.  But  her  melancholy  continued,  and  the 
state  of  mind  in  which  I  found  her  still  endures. 
Will  it  ever  change?  I  gave  out  here  that  she 
was  a  relafive  who  was  in  ill  health.  But  the 
wnter  has  paaeed,  and  she  remains  precisely  the 
same.     Can  siie  live  on  long  in  this  mood  ? 

At  length  I  have  decided  to  try  a  change  for 
her.  The  Holy  Sisterhood  of  Mercy  have  a  con- 
vent here,  where  she  may  find  a  higher  and  purer 
atmosphere  than  any  where  else.  There  I  have 
placed  her.  I  have  told  nothing  of  her  story. 
They  think  she  is  in  grief  for  the  death  of  friends. 
They  have  received  her  with  that  warm  sympathy 
und  holy  love  which  it  is  the  aim  of  their  life  to 
cherish. 

O  mater  alma  Christi  carlssima, 

Te  uunc  flagitant  devota  corda  et  era, 

Ora  pro  nobis ! 

August  5,  1847. — The  summer  goes  on  pleas- 
antly. A  bracing  climate,  a  cool  sea-breeze,  fish- 
ing and  hunting  in  the  forests,  sailing  in  the  har- 
bor— these  are  the  amusements  which  cue  can 
find  if  he  has  the  leisure. 

She  has  been  among  the  Sisterhood  of  Mercy 
for  some  months.  The  deep  calm  of  that  holy 
retreat  has  soothed  her,  but  only  this  much  that 
her  melancholy  has  not  lessened  but  grown  more 
j)lacid.  She  is  in  the  midst  of  those  whose 
thoughts  are  habitually  directed  to  that  world 
which  she  longs  after.  The  home  from  which 
she  has  been  exiled  is  the  desire  of  their  hearts. 


They  aim  after  that  place  for  which  she  long* 
with  so  deep  a  longing.  There  is  sympathy  in 
all  those  hearts  with  one  another.  She  hears  in 
their  chants  and  prayers  those  hopes  and  desires, 
and  these  are  but  the  utterances  of  what  she  feels. 
Here  they  sing  the  matchless  Rhytnm  of  Ber- 
nard de  Morlaix,  and  in  these  words  she  finds 
the  highest  expression  that  human  words  can 
give  of  the  thoughts  and  desires  of  her  souL 
They  tell  me  that  the  first  time  they  sang  it,  as 
they  came  to  this  passage  she  burst  into  tears 
and  sunk  down  almost  senseless : 

0  bona  patria !  lamina  sobria  te  gpeci'.lantur, 
Ad  taa  nonina  eobrla  lamina  collacrimautnr : 
^t  taa  mentio  pectoris  unctis,  cnra  doloris, 
Concipieutibos  aettiera  mentibna  ignis  amoris. 

November  17. — ^I'he  winter  must  soon  be  here 
again. 

My  treasure  is  well  guarded  by  the  Holy  Sis- 
terhood. They  revere  her  and  look  upon  her  as 
a  saint.  They  tell  me  wonderful  things  al)out 
her  which  have  sunk  into  my  soul.  They  think 
that  she  is  another  Saint  Cecilia,  or  rather  Saint 
Teresa,  the  Saint  of  Love  and  Longing. 

She  told  them  once  that  she  was  not  a  Catho- 
lic, but  that  any  form  of  worship  was  sweet  and 
precious  to  her — most  of  all,  the  lofty  utterances 
of  the  prayers  and  hymns  of  the  Church,  she 
will  not  listen  to  dogmas,  but  says  that  God 
wishes  only  love  and  praise.  Yet  she  joins  in  all 
their  rites,  and  in  this  House,  where  Love  is 
chiefly  adored,  she  surpasses  all  in  the  deep  love 
of  her  heart 

January  2,  1848. — I  have  seen  her  for  the  first 
time  in  many  months.  She  smiled.  I  never 
saw  her  smile  before,  except  once  in  the  ship, 
when  I  told  my  name  and  made  her  mother  take 
my  place  in  the  cabin. 

She  smiled.  It  was  as  if  an  angel  from  heav- 
en had  smiled  on  me.  Do  I  not  believe  that  she 
is  one? 

They  all  say  thnt  she  is  unchanged.  Her  sad- 
ness has  had  no  abatement.  On  that  meeting 
she  made  an  effort  for  my  sake  to  stoop  to  me. 
Perhaps  she  saw  how  my  very  soul  entreated  her 
to  speak.  So  she  spoke  of  the  Sisterhood,  and 
said  she  loved  them  all.  1  asked  her  if  she  was 
happier  here  than  at  my  house.  She  said  '"  No." 
I  did  not  know  whether  to  feel  rejoiced  or  sor- 
rowful. Then  she  told  me  something  which  has 
filled  me  with  wonder  ever  since. 

She  asked  me  if  I  had  been  making  inquiries 
about  her  family,  for  I  had  said  that  I  would. 
I  told  her  that  1  had.  She  asked  what  I  had 
heard.  I  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  at  last, 
seeing  that  she  was  superior  to  any  sorrow  of  be- 
reavement, I  told  her  all  about  the  sad  fate  of  her 
brother  Louis,  which  your  old  friend  Courtenay 
Despard  had  conununicated  to  his  uncle  here. 
She  listened  without  emotion,  and  at  last,  look- 
ing earnestly  at  me,  said, 

''He  is  not  dead!" 

1  stood  amazed.  I  had  seen  the  very  news- 
papers which  contained  an  account  of  his  death. 
I  had  read  the  letters  of  Courtenay  Despard, 
which  showed  how  painstaking  his  search  had 
been.  Had  he  not  traveled  to  every  place 
where  he  coidd  hear  any  thing  of  the  Brandons? 
Had  he  not  written  at  the  very  outset  wherevef 
he  could  hope  to  hear  any  thing?  I  did  not 
know  what  to  say. 

For  Louis  Brandon  is  known  to  have  fallen 


m 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


orerboard  from  the  sliip  Java  during  a  tremcn- 
ioiiH  monscM))!,  HevernI  hundred  miles  away  from 
ftny  land.  How  could  he  ]>(msibly  have  escaped 
ieath  ?  The  Captain,  whom  Courtenay  Despnra 
found  out  and  questioned,  said  he  threw  over  a 
hen-coop  and  a  pail.  '1  heso  could  not  save  him. 
Despard  n!;io  inquired  for  months  from  every  ship 
that  arrived  from  those  parts,  but  could  learn 
nothing.  The  next  ship  tlmt  came  fi'om  New 
South  Wales  foundered  off  the  coast  of  Africa. 
Three  passengers  escajwd  to  tSierra  Leone,  and 
tlience  to  England.  1  )espard  lennied  their  names, 
but  they  were  not  Brandon.  The  infornuvtion 
which  one  of  them,  named  Wheeler,  gave  to  the 
siiip-owncrs  afforded  no  hope  of  his  having  been 
found  by  this  ship,  even  if  it  had  been  possible. 
It  was  simply  im])ossible,  however,  for  the  Fulron 
did  not  pass  the  spot  where  poor  Brandon  fell 
overboard  till  months  had  elapsed. 

All  these  things  I  knew,  and  they  came  to  my 
mind.  8he  did  not  notice  my  emotion,  but  after 
a  pause  she  looked  at  mo  again  with  the  same 
earnestness,  and  said, 

"  My  brother  Frank  is  not  dead." 

This  sur{)rised  me  as  much  as  the  other. 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  1,  rcvereutlv. 

"lam.' 

"How  did  you  learn  this?  All  who  have 
hiquired  say  that  both  of  your  brothers  are 
dead." 

'■''They  told  me, "  said  she,  ' ' many  times.  T7tei/ 
Baid  that  my  brothers  had  not  come  among  them 
to  their  own  place,  as  they  would  have  had  to 
come  if  they  had  left  the  earth." 

She  spoke  solemnly  and  with  mysterious  em- 
phasis. I  said  nothing,  for  I  knew  not  what  to 
say. 

On  going  home  and  thinking  over  this,  I  saw 
that  she  believed  herself  to  have  the  power  of 
communicating  with  the  departed.  I  did  not 
know  v'liether  this  intelligence,  which  she  be- 
lieved she  had  received,  had  been  gained  in  her 
trance,  or  whether  she  thought  that  she  had  re- 
cent inteniews  with  those  on  high.  1  went  to 
see  her  again,  and  asked  this.  IShe  told  me  that 
once  since  her  recover)-  she  had  fallen  into  that 
state,  and  had  been,  as  she  called  it,  "in  her 
home." 

I  ventured  to  ask  her  more  about  what  she 
considered  a  communion  with  the  departed.  She 
tried  to  speak,  but  looked  like  one  who  could  not 
find  words.  It  was  still  the  same  as  before.  She 
has  in  her  mind  thoughts  which  can  not  be  ex- 
pressed by  any  human  language.  She  will  not 
be  able  to  exjjress  tliem  till  such  a  language 
is  obtained.  Yet  she  gave  me  one  idea,  which 
has  been  in  my  mind  ever  since. 

She  said  that  the  language  of  those  among 
whom  she  has  been  has  nothing  on  earth  which 
ix  like  it  except  music.  If  our  music  could  be 
developed  to  an  indefinite  extent  it  might  at  last 
begin  to  resemble  it.  Yet  she  said  that  she  some- 
times heard  strains  here  in  the  Holy  Mass  which 
reminded  her  of  that  language,  and  might  be  in- 
telligible to  an  immortal. 

This  is  the  idea  which  she  imparted  to  me,  and 
I  have  thought  of  it  ever  since. 

Auffust  23. — Great  things  have  happened. 

W^hen  I  last  wrote  I  had  gained  the  idea  of 
transforming  music  into  a  language.  The  thought 
came  to  me  that  I,  who  thirst  for  music,  and  love 
it  and  cherish  it  above  all  things — to  whom  it  is 


an  hourly  comfort  and  solace — that  I  might  riia 
to  utter  forth  to  her  sounds  which  she  miglit  hear. 
I  had  already  seen  enough  of  her  spiritual  tone 
to  know  what  sympathies  and  emotions  might 
l)est  be  acted  U|)on.  I  saw  her  several  'imes,  so 
as  to  stimulate  myself  to  a  higher  and  purer  ex- 
ercise of  whatever  genius  I  may  have. 

I  was  encouraged  by  the  thought  that  from  my 
earliest  ciiildiiood,  as  I  began  to  learn  to  speak 
so  I  began  to  learn  to  sing.  As  I  learned  to 
i-eud  printed  tyiHj  so  1  read  printed  music.  Tiie 
tiioughts  of  conipoiiers  in  music  thus  became  as 
legil  le  to  me  as  those  of  composers  in  words. 
So  all  my  life  my  knowledge  has  widened,  and 
with  that  knowledge  my  love  has  increa.sed.  Tliis 
has  been  my  one  aim  in  life — my  joy  and  my  de- 
light. Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  at  last,  when 
alone  with  my  Cremona,  1  could  utter  all  my  own 
thoughts,  and  pour  forth  every  feeling  that  was 
in  my  heart.  This  was  a  language  with  me.  I 
spoke  it,  yet  there  was  no  one  who  could  under- 
stand it  fully.  ( )nly  one  had  I  ever  met  with  to 
whom  I  told  this  besides  yourself — she  could  ac- 
company me — she  could  understand  and  follow 
me  wherever  I  led.  1  could  sjieak  this  langunge 
to  her,  and  she  could  hear  and  comprehend. 
This  one  was  my  Hice. 

Now  that  she  had  told  me  this  I  grasped  at  the 
thought.  Never  before  had  the  idea  entered  my 
mind  of  trjing  upon  her  the  effect  of  my  music. 
I  had  given  it  u])  for  her  sake  while  she  was  w  ith 
me,  not  liking  to  cause  any  sound  to  disturb  her 
rapt  and  melancholy  mood. 

But  now  I  began  to  understand  how  it  was 
with  her.  She  had  learned  the  langunge  of  the 
highest  i)laces  and  had  heard  the  New  Song.  She 
stood  far  above  me,  and  if  she  could  not  under- 
stand my  music  it  would  be  from  the  same  reason 
that  a  grown  man  can  not  compreliend  the  words 
of  a  lisping,  stammering  child.  She  had  tlmt 
language  in  its  fullness.  I  had  it  only  in  its  cru- 
dest rudiments. 

Now  Bice  learned  my  words  and  followed  me. 
She  knew  my  utterance.  I  was  the  master — she 
the  disciple.  But  here  was  one  who  could  lead 
rae.  I  would  be  the  follower  and  djpciple.  From 
her  I  could  learn  more  than  in  all  my  life  I  could 
ever  discover  by  my  own  unassisted  efforts. 

It  was  mine,  therefore,  to  struggle  to  overcome 
the  lis])ing,  stammering  utterance  of  my  purely 
earthly  music  ;  to  gain  from  her  some  knowledge 
of  the  mood  of  that  holier,  heavenly  exjuession, 
so  that  at  last  I  might  be  able  in  some  degree  to 
speak  to  this  exile  the  langur.ge  of  the  home 
which  she  loved ;  that  we,  by  holding  commune 
in  this  language,  migiit  rise  together  to  a  higher 
spiritual  realm,  and  that  she  in  her  solitude  might 
receive  at  least  some  associate. 

So  I  proposed  to  her  to  come  back  and  stay 
with  me  again.     She  consented  at  once. 

Before  that  memorable  evening  I  purified  my 
heart  by  fasting  and  p.ayer.  I  was  like  one  who 
was  seeking  to  ascend  into  heaven  to  take  part  in 
that  celestial  communion,  to  join  in  the  New 
Song,  the  music  of  the  angels. 

By  fasting  and  prayer  I  sought  so  to  ascend, 
and  to  find  thoughts  and  fit  utterance  for  those 
thoughts.  I  looked  upon  my  oflice  as  similar  to 
that  of  the  holy  prophets  of  old.  I  felt  that  I 
had  a  power  of  utterance  if  the  Divine  One  would 
only  inspire. 

I  fasted  and  prayed  that  so  I  might  reduce 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


117 


this  grosser  material  frame,  and  sharpen  and 
quicken  every  nerve,  and  Htimulate  every  fibre 
of  the  brain.  So  alone  could  I  most  nearly  ap- 
proach to  the  commune  of  spirits.  Thus  had 
those  saints  and  prophets  of  old  done  when  they 
had  entered  upon  the  search  after  this  commun- 
ion, and  they  had  received  their  reward,  even  the 
visitation  of  angels  and  the  vision  of  the  blessed. 

A  prophet — yes — now,  in  these  days,  it  is  left 
foi  the  prophet  to  utter  forth  his  iusi>iration  by 
no  other  way  than  that  of  music. 

So  I  fasted  and  prayed.     1  too^  .ip  the  words 

from  the  holy  priesthood,  anu  I  said,  as  they 

say: 

Munda  cor  menin,  ac  labia  men,  Omnipotcns  Dcus, 
qui  labia  Isaiae  prophetae,  calculo  munilasti  ignito  ! 

For  so  Isaiah  had  been  exalted  till  he  heard 
the  Lingaage  of  heaven,  the  music  of  the  sera- 
phim. 

She,  my  divinity,  my  adored,  enshrined  again 
in  my  house,  bore  herself  as  before — kind  to 
me  and  gentle  beyond  all  expression,  but  with 
thoughts  of  her  own  that  placed  between  us  a 
gulf  as  wide  as  that  which  separates  the  mortal 
from  the  immortal. 

On  that  evening  she  was  with  me  in  the  parlor 
which  looks  out  upon  the  Northwest  Arm.  The 
moon  shone  down  there,  the  dark,  rocky  hills  on 
the  opposite  side  rose  in  heavy  masses.  The 
servants  were  away  in  the  city.    We  were  alone. 

Ah,  my  Cremona!  if  a  material  instrument 
were  ever  able  to  utter  forth  sounds  to  which  im- 
mortals might  listen,  thou,  best  gift  of  my  father, 
thou  canst  utter  them ! 

"  You  are  pale,"  said  she,  for  she  was  always 
kindly  and  aiiectionate  as  a  mother  with  n  child, 
as  a  guardian  angel  with  his  ward.  "You  are 
pale.  Y'ou  always  forget  yourself  for  others,and 
now  you  suffer  anxiety  for  me.  Do  not  suffer, 
I  have  my  consolations.'* 

I  di4  iiot  make  any  reply,  but  took  my  Cre- 
mona, and  sought  to  lift  up  all  my  soul  to  a  level 
with  hers,  to  that  lofty  realm  wiiere  her  s])irit 
ever  wandered,  that  so  I  might  not  be  comfort- 
less. She  started  at  tlie  fust  tone  that  I  struck 
forth,  and  looked  at  me  with  her  large,  earnest 
eyes.  I  foimd  my  own  gaze  fixed  on  hers,  rapt 
and  entranced.  Now  there  came  at  last  the  in- 
spiration so  longed  for,  so  sought  for.  It  came 
from  where  her  very  soul  looked  forth  into  mine, 
out  of  the  glory  of  her  lustrous,  spiritual  eyes. 
They  grew  brighter  with  an  almost  immortal 
radiance,  and  all  my  heart  rose  up  till  it  seemed 
ready  to  burst  in  the  frenzy  of  that  inspired  mo- 
ment. 

Now  I  felt  the  spirit  of  prophecy,  I  felt  the 
afflatus  of  the  inspired  sibyl  or  seer,  and  the  voice 
of  music  which  for  a  lifetime  I  had  sought  to 
utter  forth  now  at  last  sounded  as  I  longed  that 
it  should  sound. 

I  exulted  in  that  sound.  I  knew  that  at  last  I 
luid  caught  the  tone,  and  from  her.  I  knew  its 
meaning  and  exulted,  as  the  poet  or  the  mup'cian 
must  always  exult  when  some  idea  sublimer  than 
any  which  he  has  ever  known  is  wafted  over  his 
upturned  spiritual  gaze. 

She  shared  my  exultation.  There  came  over 
her  face  swiftly,  like  the  lightning  flash,  an  ex- 
pression of  surprise  and  joy.  So  the  face  of  the 
exile  lightens  up  at  the  throbbing  of  his  heart, 
when,  in  some  foreign  land,  he  suddenly  and  un- 
exjiectedly  hears  the  sound  of  his  own  language. 


So  his  eyes  light  np,  and  his  heart  heats  faster, 
and  even  amidst  the  very  longing  of  his  soul  after 
home,  the  desire  after  that  home  is  appeased  by 
these  its  most  hallowed  associations. 

And  the  full  meaning  of  that  el(M|ucnt  gaze  of  ' 
hers  as  her  soul  looked  into  mine  l)ecarae  all  ap- 
parent to  me.     "  Speak  on,"  it  said ;  "  sound  on, 
oh  strains  of  the  lan'^uage  of  ray  home !     Unheard 
so  long,  now  heard  at  last. " 

I  knew  that  I  was  comprehended.  Now  all 
the  feelings  of  the  melancholy  months  came  rush- 
ing over  my  heart,  and  all  the  holiest  ideas  which 
had  animated  my  life  came  thronging  into  my 
mind,  bursting  forth  into  tones,  as  though  of  their 
own  accord,  involuntarily,  as  words  como  forth 
iu  a  dream. 

"  Oh  thou,"  I  said,  in  that  language  which  my 
o^vn  lips  could  not  utter — "  oh  thou  whom  I  saved 
from  the  tomb,  the  life  to  which  I  restored  thee 
is  irksome ;  but  there  remains  a  life  to  which  at 
last  thou  shah  attain. 

"Oh  thou,"  I  said,  "whose  si)irit  moves 
among  the  immortals,  I  am  mortal  yet  immortal! 
My  soul  seeks  commune  with  them.  I  veam 
after  that  communion.  Life  here  on  earth  is  not 
more  dear  to  me  than  to  thee.  Ilelj)  me  to  rise 
above  it.  Thou  hast  been  on  high,  show  me  too 
the  way. 

"Oh  thou,"  I  said,  "who  hast  seen  things 
ineffable,  imjiart  to  me  thy  confidence.  Let  me 
know  thy  secret.  Receive  me  as  the  companion 
of  thy  soul.  Shut  not  tiiyself  up  in  solitude. 
Listen,  I  can  speak  thy  language. 

"Attend,"  I  cried,  "for  it  is  not  for  nothing 
that  the  Divine  One  has  sent  thee  back.  Live 
not  these  mortal  days  in  loneliness  and  in  useless- 
ness.  Regard  thy  fellow-mortak  and  seek  to 
bless  them.  Thou  hast  learned  the  mystery  of 
the  highest.  Let  me  be  thine  interpreter.  All 
that  thou  hast  learned  I  will  communicate  to 
man. 

"Rise  up,"  I  cried,  "to  happiness  and  to  la- 
bor. Behold!  I  give  thee  a  puiTJOse  in  life. 
Blend  thy  soul  with  mine,  and  let  me  utter  thy 
thoughts  so  that  men  shall  hear  and  understand. 
For  I  know  that  the  highest  truth  of  highest 
Heaven  means  nothing  more  than  love.  GathtfP 
up  all  thy  love,  let  it  flow  forth  to  thy  fellow- 
men.  This  shall  be  at  once  the  labor  and  the 
consolation  of  thy  life. " 

Now  all  this,  and  much  more — far  more — was 
expressed  in  the  tones  that  flowed  from  my  Cre- 
mona. It  was  all  in  my  heart.  It  came  forth. 
It  was  apprehended  by  her.  I  saw  it,  I  knew  if, 
and  I  exulted.  Iler  eyes  dilated  more  widely 
— my  words  were  not  unworthy  of  her  hearif.g. 
I  then  was  able  to  tell  something  which  could 
rouse  her  from  her  stHi)or.  Oh,  Music!  Divine 
Music !     What  y)ower  thou  hast  over  the  soul ! 

There  came  over  her  face  an  expression  whiih 
I  never  saw  before ;  one  of  peace  inettable — the 
peace  that  passeth  understanding.  Ah  me!  I 
seemed  to  draw  her  to  myself.  For  she  rose  and 
walked  toward  me.  And  a  great  calm  came 
over  my  own  soul.  My  Cremona  spoke  of  peace 
— soft,  sweet,  and  deep ;  the  profound  peace  that 
dwelleth  in  the  soul  which  has  its  hop*i  in  frui- 
tion. The  tone  widened  into  sweet  modulation 
— sweet  beyond  all  expression. 

She  was  so  close  that  she  almost  touched  me. 
Her  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  mine.  Tears  were 
there,  but  not  tears  of  son-ow.     Her  face  was  so 


118 


COr<D  AND  CREESE. 


I    DID   NOT   tIAKE   ANY   REPLY,   BUT   TOOK    MY    CREMONA.    AXI> 
MY   SOUL   TO   A    LEVEL   WITH    HEKS." 


S(»L<jHT   to    LIFT    LI'   ALL 


close  to  mine  that  my  strength  left  me.  My 
arms  dropped  dowTiward.     The  music  was  over. 

iShe  held  out  her  hand  to  me.  I  caught  it  in 
both  of  mine,  and  wet  it  with  my  tears. 

"  Paolo,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  of  musical  tone ; 
"  Paolo,  you  are  already  one  of  us.  You  speak 
our  language. 

"  You  have  taught  me  something  which  flows 
from  love — dut}-.  Yes,  we  will  laho.  together; 
and  they  who  live  on  high  will  learn  even  in 
their  radiant  home  to  envy  us  poor  mortals." 

i.  said  not  a  word,  but  knelt ;  and  holding  her 
liand  still,  I  looked  up  at  her  in  grateful  adoration. 

November  28. — For  the  last  three  months  I 
■Jiave  lived  in  heaven.  She  is  changed.  Music 
Has  reconciled  her  to  exile.     She  has  foimd  one 


who  speaks,  though  weakly,  the  language  of  that 
home. 

We  hold  together  through  this  divine  medium 
a  lofty  spiritual  intercourse.  I  learn  from  her  of 
that  starry  world  in  which  for  a  brief  time  she 
was  permitted  to  dwell.  Her  seraphic  thoughts 
have  Income  communicated  to  me.  I  have  made 
them  my  own,  and  all  my  spirit  has  risen  to  a 
higher  altitude. 

So  I  have  at  last  received  that  revelation  for 
which  I  longed,  and  the  divine  thoughts  witl". 
which  she  has  inspired  me  I  will  make  known  to 
the  world.  How?  Description  is  inadequate, 
but  it  is  enough  to  say  that  I  have  decided  upon 
an  Opera  as  the  best  mode  of  making  known 
these  ideas. 


CORD  AND  CREESE, 


no 


I  have  resorted  to  ^^ne  of  those  classical  themes 
which,  thoagh  as  old  ab  "ivilization,  are  yet  ever 
new,  because  they  are'trutu. 

My  Opera  is  on  the  theme  of  i  -omrthens.  It 
refers  to  Prometheus  Delivered.  x«.'v  idea  is  de- 
rived from  hei.  I'lcmctheus  repr^  nts  Divine 
Lore — since  he  ii  the  god  who  suffp.  unendur- 
able agonies  through  his  love  fc  nan.  Zeus 
represents  the  old  austere  god  c  '  th ;  sects  and 
creed?  —  tlie  gloomy  God  of  Veu^eance  —  the 
stem — tiic  inexorable — the  cruel. 

Love  endures  through  the  iiges,  but  at  last 
triumphs.  The  chief  a^'int  in  his  triumph  is 
Athene.  She  represents  Wisdom,  which,  by  its 
Ufe  and  increase,  at  last  dethrones  the  God  of 
Vengeance  and  enthrones  the  God  of  Love. 

For  so  the  world  goes  on ;  and  thus  it  shall  be 
that  Human  Understanding,  which  I  have  per- 
sonified under  Athene,  will  at  last  exalt  Divine 
Love  over  all,  and  cast  aside  its  olden  adoration 
of  Divine  Vengeance. 

I  am  trying  to  give  to  my  Opera  the  severe 
simplicity  of  the  classical  form,  yet  at  the  same 
time  to  pervade  it  all  with  the  warm  atmosphere 
of  love  in  its  widest  sense.  It  opens  with  a 
chorus  of  seraphim.  Prometheus  laments ;  but 
the  chief  part  is  that  of  Athene.  On  that  I  have 
exhausted  myself. 

But  where  can  I  get  a  voice  that  can  adequate- 
ly render  my  thoughts — our  thoughts?  Where 
is  Bice  ?  She  alone  has  this  voice ;  she  alone 
has  the  power  of  catching  and  absorbing  into  her 
own  mind  the  ideas  which  I  form ;  and,  wi'h  it 
all,  she  alone  could  express  them.  I  would  wan- 
der over  the  earth  to  find  her.  But  perhaps 
she  is  in  a  luxurious  home,  whevo  her  associates 
would  not  listen  to  such  a  propc   .d. 

Patience !  perhaps  Bice  may  at  last  bring  her 
marvelous  voice  to  my  aid. 

December  I'j. — Every  day  our  communion  has 
grown  more  exalted.  She  breathes  upon  me  the 
atmosphere  of  that  radiant  world,  and  fills  my 
soul  with  rapture.  I  live  in  a  sublime  enthusi- 
asm. We  hold  intercourse  by  means  of  music. 
We  stand  upon  a  higher  plane  than  that  of  com- 
mon men.  She  has  raised  me  there,  and  has 
made  me  to  be  a  partaker  in  her  thoughts. 

Now  I  begin  to  understand  something  of  the 
radiant  world  to  which  she  was  once  for  a  brief 
time  borne.  I  know  her  lost  joys ;  I  share  in 
her  longings.  In  me,  as  in  her,  there  is  a  deep, 
unquenchable  thirst  after  those  glories  that  are 
present  there.  All  here  seems  poor  and  mean. 
No  material  pleasure  can  for  a  moment  allure. 

I  live  in  a  frenzy.  My  soul  is  on  fire.  Mu- 
sic is  my  sole  thought  and  utterance.  Colonel 
Despara  thinks  that  I  am  mad.  My  friends  here 
pity  me.  I  smile  within  myself  when  I  think  of 
jiity  being  given  by  them  to  me.  Kindly  souls ! 
could  they  but  have  one  faint  idea  of  the  un- 
speakable joys  to  which  I  have  attained ! 

My  Cremona  is  my  voice.  It  expresses  all 
things  for  me.  Ah,  sweet  companion  of  my 
souls  flight!  my  Guide,  my  Guardian  Angel, 
iny  Inspirer !  had  ever  before  two  mortals  while 
on  earth  a  lot  like  ours  ?  Who  else  besides  us 
in  this  life  ever  learned  the  joys  of  pure  spiritual 
communion?  We  rise  on  high  together.  Our 
souls  are  borne  up  in  company.  When  w'e  hold 
commune  we  cease  to  be  mortals. 

My  Opera  is  finished.  The  radiancy  of  that 
Divine  Love  which  has  inundated  all  the  being 


of  Edith  has  been  imparted  to  me  in  some  meas- 
ure sufficient  to  enable  me  to  breathe  forth  to 
human  ears  tones  which  have  been  caught  from 
immortal  voices.  She  has  given  me  ideas.  I 
have  i.iade  them  audible  and  intelligible  to  men. 

I  have  had  one  {Performance  of  my  work,  or 
rather  our  work,  for  it  is  all  hers.  Hers  are  the 
thoughts,  mine  is  only  the  expression. 

1  sought  out  a  place  of  solitude  in  which  I 
might  perform  undisturbed  and  without  inter- 
ruption the  theme-which  I  have  tried  to  unfold. 

Opposite  my  house  is  a  wild,  rocky  shore  cov- 
ered with  the  primeval  woods.  Here  in  one 
pi  -ce  there  rises  a  barren  rock,  perfectly  bare  of 
verdure,  which  is  called  Mount  Misery.  I  chose 
this  ]ilace  as  the  spot  where  I  might  give  my  re- 
hearsal. 

She  was  the  audience — I  was  the  orchestra — 
we  two  were  alone. 

Mount  Misery  is  one  barren  rock  without  a 
blade  of  grass  on  all  its  dark  iron-like  surface. 
Around  it  is  a  vast  accumulation  of  granite  boul- 
ders and  vast  rocky  ledges.  The  trees  are  stunt- 
ed, the  very  ferns  can  scarcely  find  a  place  to 
grow. 

It  was  night.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in  the 
sky.     The  moon  shone  with  man-elous  lustre. 

Down  in  front  of  us  lay  the  long  arm  of  the 
sea  that  ran  up  between  us  and  the  city.  On 
the  opposite  side  were  woods,  and  beyond  them 
rose  the  citadel,  on  the  other  side  of  which  the 
city  Lay  nestling  at  its  base  like  those  Rhenish 
towns  which  lie  at  the  foot  of  feudal  castles. 

On  the  left  hand  all  was  a  wilderness  ;  on  the 
right,  close  by,  was  a  small  laka,  which  seemed 
like  a  sheet  of  silver  in  the  moon's  rays.  Farther 
on  lay  the  ocean,  stretching  in  its  boundless  ex- 
tent away  to  the  horizon.  There  lay  islands  and 
sand-banks  with  light-houses.  There,  under  the 
moon,  lay  a  bioad  i)ath  of  golden  light — molt- 
en gpld — unruffled — undisturbed  in  that  dead 
calm. 

My  Opera  begins  with  an  Alleluia  Chorus.  I 
have  borrowed  words  from  the  Angel  Song  at  the 
opening  of  "  Faust"  for  my  score.  But  the  mu- 
sic has  an  expression  of  its  own,  and  the  words 
are  feeble ;  and  the  only  comfort  is,  that  these 
words  will  be  lost  in  the  triumph  strain  of  the 
tones  that  accomjmny  them. 

She  was  with  me,  exulting  where  I  was  ex- 
ultant, sad  where  I  was  sorrowful ;  still  with  her 
air  of  Guide  and  Teacher.  She  is  my  Egeria. 
She  is  my  Inspiring  Muse.  I  invoke  her  when 
I  sing. 

But  my  song  carried  her  away.  Her  own 
thoughts  expressed  by  my  utterance  were  re- 
turned to  her,  and  she  yielded  herself  up  al*o- 
gether  to  their  power. 

Ah  me !  there  is  one  language  common  to  aU 
on  earth,  and  to  all  in  heaven,  and  that  is  music. 

I  exulted  then  on  that  bare,  blasted  rock.     I 

triumphed.     She  joined  me  in  it  all.     We  ex- 

i  ulted  together..    We  triumphed.     We  mourned, 

I  we  rejoiced,  we  despaired,  we  hoped,  we  sung 

alleluiiis  in  our  hearts.     The  very  winds  were 

j  still.     The  very  moon  seemed  to  stay  her  course. 

All  nature  was  hushed. 

i      She  stood  before  me,  white,  slender,  aerial, 

I  like  a  spirit  from  on  high,  as  pure,  as  holy,  aa 

stainless.      Her  soul  and  mine  were   blended. 

We  moved  to  one  common  impulse.     We  obeyed 

i  one  common  motive. 


120 


CORD  AND  CKEE8E. 


What  is  this?    Is  it  lore?    Yet;  but  not  ai 

men  call  love.  Oura  is  heavenij  love,  ardent, 
but  yet  spiritual ;  intense,  hut  without  nassion ; 
a  burning  love  like  that  of  the  chenihiin ;  all- 
consoming,  all-engrossing,  and  enduring  tor  ev- 
ermore. 

Have  I  ever  told  her  my  admirat-.on?  Yes; 
but  not  in  words.  I  have  told  her  m)  in  music, 
in  every  tone,  in  every  strain.  '  ".e  knows  that 
I  am  hers.  She  is  my  divinity,  my  muse,  my 
better  genius — the  nobler  half  cf  my  soul. 

I  have  laid  all  my  spirit  at  her  feet,  as  one 
prostrates  iiimself  before  a  divinity.  She  has  ac- 
cepted that  adoration  and  has  been  pleased. 

We  are  blended.  We  are  one,  but  not  aft- 
er an  earthly  fashion,  for  ne\er  yet  have  I  even 
touched  her  hand  in  love.  It  is  our  sinrits,  our 
real  selves — not  our  merely  visible  selves — that 
love ;  yet  that  love  is  so  intense  that  I  would  die 
for  e  ermore  if  my  death  could  make  her  life 
more  sweet. 

She  has  heard  all  this  from  my  Cremona. 

Here,  as  we  stood  under  the  moon,  I  thought 
her  a  spirit  with  a  mortal  lover.  1  recognised 
the  full  meaning  of  the  sublime  legend  of  Numa 
and  Egerio.  The  mortal  as;>ires  in  purity  of 
heart,  and  the  immortal  comes  down  nnd  assists 
and  responds  to  his  aspinitiuns. 

Our  souls  vibrated  in  unison  to  the  expression 
of  heavenly  thoughts.  We  threw  oui-selves  into 
the  rapture  of  the  hour.  We  trembled,  we 
thrilled,  till  at  last  frail  mortal  nature  could 
scarcely  endure  the  intensity  t)f  that  |)erfect  joy. 

So  we  came  to  the  end.  The  end  is  n  chorus 
of  angels.  They  sing  the  divinest  of  songs  that 
is  written  in  Holy  Revelation.  All  the  glory  of 
that  song  reaches  its  climax  in  the  last  strain : 

"  And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes !" 

We  wept  together.  But  we  dried  our  tears 
nnd  went  home,  musing  on  that  "  tearless  eter- 
nity" which  lies  before  us. 

Morning  is  dawning  as  I  write,  and  all  the 
feeling  of  my  soul  can  be  expressed  in  one  word, 
the  sublimest  of  all  words,  which  is  intelligible  to 
many  of  different  languages  and  different  racus. 
I  will  end  with  this : 

"Alleluia!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THIS   SirST   END. 

The  note  which  ncconijmnied  Langhetti's  jour- 
nal was  as  follows : 

"  Halifax,  Derember  IS,  1843. 

"Terescola  MIA  noLcissiMA, — I  send  ycu 
my  journal,  sorella  carissima.  I  have  been  si- 
lent for  a  long  time.  Forgive  me.  I  have  been 
sad  and  in  affliction.  But  affliction  has  turned 
to  joy,  and  I  have  learned  things  unknown  be- 
fore. 

"  Teresina  min,  I  am  coming  back  to  En- 
gland immediately.  You  may  expect  to  see  me 
at  any  time  during  the  next  three  months.  She 
will  be  with  me ;  but  so  sensitive  is  she — so 
strange  would  she  be  to  you — that  I  do  not 
know  whether  it  will  be  well  for  you  to  see  her 
or  not.  I  dare  not  let  her  be  exposed  to  the 
gaze  of  any  one  unknown  to  her.  Yet,  sweetest 
sorellina,  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  tell  her  that 


I  hare  a  dearaat  sister,  whose  heart  U  Icne, 
whose  nature  is  noble,  and  who  could  treat  her 
with  tendercst  care. 

"  I  intend  to  otter  my  Opera  to  the  woild  at 
London.  1  will  be  my  own  impresario.  Yet 
I  want  one  thing,  and  that  is  a  Voice.  Oh  for 
a  Voice  like  that  of  llice !  But  it  is  idle  to  ..  ish 
for  her. 

"Never  have  I  heard  any  voice  like  hers,  my 
Teresina.     God  grant  that  I  may  find  her! 

"  K\|)cct  soon  and  suddenly  to  see  your  most 
loving  brother,  Paolo." 

Mrs.  Thornton  showed  this  note  to  Despard 
the  next  time  they  met.  He  had  read  the  jour- 
nal  in  the  mean  time. 

"  So  he  is  coming  back  ?"  said  he. 

"Yes." 

"  And  with  this  man'elous  girl?" 

"Yes." 

"  She  seems  to  me  like  a  spirit" 

"And  to  me." 

"  Paolo's  own  nature  is  so  lofty  and  so  Bpirtt- 
ual  that  one  like  her  is  intelligible  to  him.  Hnj)- 
py  is  it  for  her  that  he  found  her. " 
'  "Paolo  is  more  spiritual  than  human.  He 
has  no  materialism.  He  is  spiritual.  I  am  of 
the  earth,  earthy ;  but  my  bi  other  is  a  spirit  im- 
prisoned, who  chafes  at  his  bonds  and  longs  to 
be  free.  And  think  what  Paolo  has  done  for 
her  in  his  sublime  devotion !" 

"  I  know  others  who  would  do  as  much,"  said 
Despard,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  full  of  tears ; 
"I  know  others  who,  like  him,  would  go  to  the 
grave  to  rescue  the  one  they  loved,  and  make 
all  life  one  long  devotion,  I  know  others,"  he 
continued,  "who  would  gladly  die,  if  by  dying 
they  could  gain  what  he  has  won — the  possession 
of  the  one  they  love.  Ah  me !  Paolo  is  hajipy 
and  blessed  beyond  all  men.  Between  him  anil 
her  there  is  no  insuperable  barrier,  no  gulf  as 
deep  as  death." 

Despnrd  spoke  impetuously,  but  suddenly 
checked  himself. 

"I  received,"  snid  he,  "by  the  last  mail  ti 
letter  fmm  my  uncle  in  Halifax.  He  is  ordered 
off  to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope.  I  wrote  him  a 
very  long  time  ago,  as  I  told  you,  asking  hiin 
to  tell  me  without  reserve  all  that  he  knew  about 
my  father's  death.  I  told  him  i)lainly  that  there 
was  a  inysteiT  about  it  which  I  was  determined 
to  solve.  I  reproached  him  for  keeping  it  secret 
from  me,  nnd  reminded  him  that  I  was  now  a 
mature  man,  and  that  he  had  no  right  nor  any 
reason  to  maintain  any  further  secrecy.  I  in- 
sisted on  knowing  all,  no  matter  what  it  might  be. 

"I  received  his  letter  by  the  last  mail.  Here 
it  is ;"  and  he  handed  it  to  her.  "  Read  it  when 
you  get  home.  I  have  written  a  few  words  to 
you,  little  playmate,  also.  He  has  told  me  alL 
Did  you  know  this  before  ?" 

' '  Yes,  Lama, "  said  Mrs.  Thornton,  wth  a  look 
of  sorrowful  s\-mpathy. 

"You  knew  all  mv  father's  fate?" 

"Yes.  Lama." 

"And  you  kept  it  secret?'' 

"Yes,  Lama,  How  could  I  bear  to  tell  yon 
and  give  j'ou  pain  ?" 

Her  vove  trembled  as  she  spoke,  Despard 
looked  at  her  wixh  an  indescribable  expression, 

"One  thought,"  said  he,  slowly,  "and  one 
feelioj  engrosses  all  my  nature,  and  even  thi( 


COKD  AND  CUKESE. 


ISl 


newH  that  I  have  heard  csn  not  drivi  it  awajr. 
liven  the  tliuughi  of  iiiv  father'*  fate,  lo  dark  and 
ko  niyi«tori(iii4,  cuu  nut  weaken  the  thoughts  thiit 
have  nil  my  life  b«>en  Kupreme.  I)u  yuu  knuw, 
httle  phiyinate,  what  thuM!  thoughtit  are?" 

She  wiu  »ilent.  I>cii|mrd'H  hun  1  wandered 
over  the  keys.  They  aUnys  sfioku  in  low  tonen, 
whiih  wii'j  almost  whisjMjrs,  tones  width  were 
inaudible  except  lo  each  other.  And  Mrs.Tiiom- 
ton  had  to  bow  iier  head  close  to  his  to  hear  what 
he  caid. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Despard,  rfter  n  pause, 
"and  visit  Brandon  again.  I  do  not  know  wliat 
I  can  do,  l)ut  my  fnther's  dentil  rcciuircs  further 
rxHminalion.  'ibis  man  I'ottK  is  intermingled 
with  it.  My  uncle  gives  dark  hints.  I  must 
make  an  examination." 

"And  you  are  going  away  again?"  said  Mrs. 
Thornton,  sadly. 

Despard  sighed. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,"  said  he,  ns  he  took 
her  hand  in  his — "would  it  not  be  better  for  you, 
little  playmate,  if  I  went  away  from  you  forever  ?" 

SUo  gave  him  one  long  look  of  sud  leproach. 
Then  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

'*  This  can  not  go  on  forever,"  she  murmured. 
"  It  must  como  to  that  ut  last !" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
Beatrice's  jocrnal. 

Ortober  30,  1 84H. — My  recovery  has  been  slow, 
ond  I  am  still  far  from  well.  1  .stay  in  my  room 
uimost  altogether.  Why  should  1  do  other^vise  ? 
Day  succeeds  day,  and  each  day  is  a  blank. 

My  window  looks  on  the  sea,  and  I  can  sit 
there  and  feed  my  heart  on  the  memories  which 
that  sea  calls  up.  It  is  company  for  me  in  my 
solitude.  It  is  music,  thougii  I  can  not  hear  its 
voice.  Oh,  how  I  should  rejoice  if  I  could  get 
down  by  its  margin  and  touch  its  waters!  l)h 
iiow  I  should  rejoice  if  those  waters  would  flow 
over  me  forever ! 

November  1.5. — Why  I  should  write  any  thing 
now  I  do  not  know.  This  uneventful  life  otters 
liOiliing  to  record.  Mrs.  t'ompton  is  as  timid, 
as  gentle,  and  as  affeclionate  as  ever.  Philips, 
poor,  timorous,  kindly  soul,  sends  me  flowers  by 
her.  Poor  wretch,  how  Uid  he  ever  get  here? 
llov,-  did  Mrs.  Conipton  ? 

December  28. — In  spite  of  my  quiet  habits  and 
constant  seclusion  I  feel  that  I  um  under  some 
Ji'.rveillance,  not  from  Mrs.  Compton,  but  from 
otiiers.  I  have  been  out  twice  during  the  la.st 
fortnight  and  perceived  this  plainly.  Men  in  the 
walks  who  were  at  work  quietly  followed  me  with 
their  eyes.  I  see  that  I  am  watched.  I  did  not 
knon  that  I  was  of  sufKdent  importance. 

Yesterday  a  strange  incident  occurred.  Mrs. 
Compton  was  with  me,  and  by  some  means  or 
other  my  thoughts  turned  to  one  about  whom  I 
have  often  tried  to  form  conjectures — my  mother. 
How  could  she  ever  have  married  a  man  like  my 
father  ?  What  could  she  have  been  like  ?  Sud- 
denly I  turned  to  Mrs.  Compton,  and  said : 

"Did  you  ever  see  my  mother?" 

What  there  could  have  been  in  my  question  I 
can  not  tell,  but  she  trembled  and  looked  at  me 
with  greater  fear  in  her  face  than  I  had  ever  seen 
there  before.    This  time  she  seemed  to  be  afraid 


of  me.  I  myself  felt  a  cold  rhill  run  through  mr 
frame.  That  awful  thoiujht  which  I  had  once 
before  known  flashed  across  my  mind. 

"Oh!"  cried  Mm.  Compton,  suddenly,  "oh, 
don't  look  at  me  so ;  don't  liM)k  at  me  so!" 

"I  don't  understand  }'>u,"  said  I,  slowly. 

She  liiu  her  face  in  her  hands  and  began  to 
weep.  I  tried  to  soothe  her,  and  with  some  snc- 
ccKS,  for  after  a  time  she  regained  her  com|H)surr. 
Nothing  more  was  said.  Put  since  then  one 
thought,  with  a  lung  scries  of  attendant  thoughts, 
has  weighetl  down  my  mind.  Whomnlf  What 
nm  I  f  What  (im  1  duiiiij  lifref  What  do  thrtu 
peofilfi  irarit  with  met      Why  do  they  tjuard  iMt 

1  can  write  no  more. 

January  14,  184'J. — The  days  drag  on.  No- 
thing new  has  ha|i|>ei:ed.  I  am  tormented  by 
strange  thoughts.  I  xcc  this  plainly  that  there 
are  times  when  I  inspire  fear  in  this  house.  Why 
is  this? 

^  ince  that  day,  many,  many  months  ago,  when 
they  all  hioked  at  me  in  horror,  I  have  seen  none 
of  them.  No^N  .Mrs.  Compton  has  exhibited  the 
same  fear.  There  is  a  lestraint  over  her.  ^'es, 
she  too  fonvs  mc.  Yet  sh&  is  kind;  ai<d  poor 
Philips  never  forgets  to  send  me  flowers. 

I  could  smile  at  the  idea  of  any  one  fearing 
mc,  if  it  were  not  for  the  terrible  thoughts  that 
arise  within  my  mind. 

February  12. — Of  late  all  my  thoughts  have 
changed,  and  I  have  been  inspired  with  an  un- 
controllable desire  to  esca]'e.  I  live  here  in  lux- 
ury, but  the  meanest  hf)use  outside  W(juld  be  far 
preferable.  Every  hour  here  is  a  sorrow,  every 
day  a  misery.     Oh,  me  I  if  I  could  but  escape  I 

Once  in  that  outer  world  I  care  not  what 
might  happen.  I  would  be  willing  to  do  menial 
labor  to  earn  my  bread.  Yet  it  need  not  come 
to  that.  The  lesso;is  which  Paolo  taught  mc 
have  been  useful  in  more  w  ays  than  one.  I  know 
that  I  ac  least  need  not  be  dependent. 

He  used  to  say  to  me  that  if  I  clio.«e  to  go  on 
the  stage  and  sing,  1  could  do  something  better 
than  gain  a  living  or  make  n  fortune,  lie  said 
I  could  interpret  the  ideas  of  the  Great  Masters, 
and  make  myself  a  blessing  to  the  world. 

Why  need  I  stay  here  when  I  have  a  voice 
which  he  used  to  deign  to  praise?  He  did  not 
praise  it  because  he  loved  me;  but  I  think  he 
loved  me  because  he  loved  my  voice.  He  loves 
my  voice  better  than  me.  And  that  other  one  I 
Ah  me — will  he  ever  hear  my  voice  again  ?  Did 
he  know  how  sweet  his  voice  was  to  me?  Oh 
me!  its  tones  ring  in  my  ears  and  in  my  heart 
I  night  and  day. 

I  March  a. — My  resolution  is  formed.  This 
may  be  my  last  entry.  I  pray  to  God  that  it 
may  be.  I  will  trust  in  him  and  fly.  At  night 
they  can  not  be  watching  me.  There  is  a  door 
at  the  north  end,  the  key  of  which  is  always  in 
it.  I  can  steal  out  by  that  direction  and  gain 
my  liberty. 

Oh  Thou  who  hearest  prayer,  grant  deliver- 
ance to  the  captive ! 

Farewell  now,  my  journal ;  I  hope  never  to 
see  you  again !  Yet  I  will  secrete  yuu  in  this 
chamber,  for  if  I  am  compelled  to  return  I  may 
be  glad  to  seek  you  again. 

March  C. — Not  yet '.     Not  yet ! 

Alas!  and  since  yesterday  what  things  have 
happened!  Last  night  I  was  to  make  my  at- 
tempt.    They  dined  at  eight,  and  I  waited  for 


IS-J 


CORD  AND  CHEE8R. 


'oil!"   CKmU   MRS.    COMPTON,'  SUDDENLY,    "oH,   DONT   LOOK    AX   MK   SO', 

AT   ME   so!" 


DON  r    LOOK 


them  to  retire.  I  waited  long.  They  were  lon- 
ger than  usual. 

At  about  ten  o'clock  Mrs.  Compton  came  into 
my  room,  with  as  frightened  a  face  as  usual. 
"They  want  you,"  said  she. 

I  knew  whom  she  meant.  "Must  I  go?" 
said  I. 

"Alas,  dear  child,  what  can  you  do?  Trust 
in  God.     He  can  save  you." 

"He  alone  can  save  me,"  said  I,  "if  He  will. 
It  has  come  to  this  that  I  have  none  but  Him  in 
whom  I  can  trust." 

She  began  to  weep.  I  said  no  more,  but 
obeyed  the  command  and  went  down. 

Since  I  was  last  there  months  had  passed — 


n.-nths  of  suffering  end  anguish  in  body  and 
mind.  The  remembrance  of  my  Inst  visit  there 
came  over  me  as  I  entered.  Yet  1  did  not  trem- 
ble or  falter.  I  crossed  the  threshold  and  enter- 
ed the  room,  and  stood  before  them  in  silence. 

I  saw  the  three  men  who  had  been  there  be- 
fore. He  and  his  son,  and  the  man  Clark. 
They  had  all  been  drinking.  Their  voices  were 
loud  and  their  laughter  boisterous  as  I  approacii- 
ed.  When  I  entered  they  became  quiet,  and  all 
three  stared  at  me.     At  last  he  said  to  his  son, 

"She  don't  look  any  fatter,  does  she,  John-. 
nic?" 

"  ^he  gets  enough  to  eat,  any  how,"  answered 
John. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


Its 


"  Rhe't  on«  of  them  kind,"  Mid  the  man  Clark, 
*'thnt  ditn't  fHttcn  up.  Hut  then,  .lohnnie,  you 
needn't  tulk — you  haven't  much  fat  vountelf,  lad." 

"  Hard  work,"  Miid  .John,  wliereu|M)n  the 
other*,  thinking  it  an  excellent  joke,  buimt  into 
hoane  laui^hter.  Thii«  put  them  into  great  giMxl- 
bumor  with  thenitelveit,  and  they  liegan  to  turn 
their  attention  to  mo  again.  Not  a  word  was 
■aid  for  some  lime. 

"Can  you  dance?"  said  he,  at  but,  tipeaking 
to  me  abruptly. 

"  Yei4,"  I  answered. 

"Ah!  1  thought  HO.  I  paid  enough  for  your 
educatiiin,  any  Imw.  It  would  he  hard  if  you 
hadn't  learned  any  thing  elM3  except  »4uaiUng 
and  hanging  on  the  piano." 

1  Miid  noth'ng. 

"  Why  do  y<m  utare  so,  d — n  you?"  bo  cried, 
looking  Mavagelv  at  me. 

I  looked  at  the  Hoor. 

'•("oino  now,"  said  he.  "I  sent  for  yon  to 
see  if  you  can  dance.     Dance  I" 

I  stootl  Htiil.  "  Dance!"  Iio  rei)eated  with  an 
oath.     "Do  you  hear?" 

"  I  can  not,"  said  I. 

"  Perhaps  you  want  a  partner,"  continued  he, 
with  a  sneer.  "Here,  Johnnie,  go  and  help 
her." 

"I'd  rather  not,"  snid  John. 

"Ciurk,  you  try  it — you  were  always  gay," 
and  he  gave  a  hoarse  laugli. 

"Yes,  CLirk,"  cried  John.  "Now's  your 
chance." 

Clark  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  came 
toward  me.  I  stood  with  my  arms  folded,  and 
looked  at  him  fixedly.  I  wa.s  not  afraid.  For  I 
thought  in  that  ho.ur  of  who  these  men  were,  and 
what  they  were.  M^-  life  was  in  their  hands, 
but  I  held  life  cheap.  I  rose  above  the  fear  of 
the  moment,  and  felt  myself  their  suiierior. 

Chirk  came  up  to  me  and  stopped.  I  did  not 
move. 

"Curse  herl "  said  he.  "I'd  as  soon  dance 
with  a  ghost.     She  looks  like  one,  any  how." 

lie  lau'^hed  boisterously. 

"  He's  afraid.  He's  getting  superstitious !"  he 
cried.     "  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Johnnie  ?" 

"  Well,"  drawled  John,  "  it's  the  first  time  1 
ever  heard  of  Clark  being  afraid  of  any  thing." 

These  words  seemed  to  sting  Clark  to  the 
quick. 

"  Will  you  dance?"  said  he,  in  a  hoarse  voice. 

I  made  no  answer. 

"Curse  her!  make  her  dance!"  he  .'houted, 
starting  up  from  his  chair.  "Don't  let  h  luily 
you.  you  fool!" 

Clark  stc-  '^'^d  toward  me  and  laid  one  heavy 
hand  on  min.  ihile  he  attempted  to  pa'^^i  the 
other  round  m_)  n.  ,t.  At  the  horror  of  his  pol- 
lutinf  .chaJlm,  iture  scftmed  transfonned.  I 
startei.  There     me  something  like  a  frenzy 

over  me.     l        '"'•       iw  nor  cared  what  I  said. 

Yet  1  spoke  slow  n ,  d  it  was  not  like  passion. 
All  that  1  had  read  in  at  manuscript  was  in  my 
heait,  the  very  spirit  of  the  murdered  Despard 
seemed  to  inspire  me. 

"Touch  me  not,"  I  said.  "Trouble  me  not. 
I  am  near  enough  to  Death  already.  And  you," 
I  cried,  stretching  out  iny  hand  to  him,  "  Thug  ! 
never  again  will  I  obey  one  command  of  yours. 
Kill  mp  if  you  cl'.cobe,  tndsend  me  after  Colonel 
Despard." 


Thexc  wordH  uremed  to  blast  and  wither  them. 
Clark  lihrank  back.  //<*  ga\  e  a  groan,  and  clutc'b'> 
ed  the  arm  of  bin  cliair.  John  looked  in  fear  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  utammered  with  an  ottth  : 

"  She  knows  all !     Mrw.  C'ompton  told  her." 

"Mm.  Compton  never  knew  it,  about  the 
Thug,"  said  he,  and  then  hmked  up  feorfUUj 
at  me.  They  all  looked  once  more.  Again 
that  fear  which  I  had  Fcen  in  them  before  waa 
shown  u(X)n  their  faces. 

I  liM>ked  u|HHi  these  wretches  as  though  I  bad 
surveyed  them  from  s<imc  lofty  height.  That  one 
of  them  was  my  father  was  forgotten.  I  seemed 
to  utter  words  which  were  in>pircd  within  me. 

"  Colonel  Despard  bus  spoken  to  me  from  the 
dead,  and  told  me  all,"  said  I.  "  I  am  appointed 
to  avenge  him." 

I  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room.  As  I  left 
I  heard  John's  voice: 

"  If  she's  the  devil  himself,  as  I  believe  she 
is,"  ho  cried,  "  »/re'j»  i/ot  to  lif  took  (town  .'" 

I  reached  my  rcMim.  I  lay  awake  all  night 
long.  A  fever  seemed  raging  in  all  my  veins. 
Now  with  a  throbbing  bend  and  trembling  hands 
I  write  this.  Will  these  l>e  my  last  words?  God 
grant  it,  and  give  me  safe  deliverance.  AmenJ 
amen! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

SMITHEKS  <k  CO. 

The  Brandon  Bank,  .lohn  Potts,  President, 
had  one  diiy  risen  suddenly  l>efore  the  eyes  of  the 
astonished  county  and  filled  all  men  with  curious 
speculations. 

John  Potts  had  b  en  detestable,  but  now,  as  a 
Bank  Pre>ident,  he  l)egan  to  be  respectable,  to 
say  the  least.  Wealth  lias  a  charm  alwut  it  which 
fascinates  all  men,  even  those  of  the  oldest  fami- 
lies, and  now  that  this  parvenu  showed  that  he 
could  easily  employ  his  sujierfluons  cash  in  a  bank- 
ing company,  ))eople  began  to  look  uf)on  his  name 
as  still  undoubtedly  vulgar,  yet  as  undoubtedly 
jiossessing  the  ring  of  gold. 

His  first  effort  to  take  the  county  by  storm, 
by  an  ordinary  invitation  to  Brandon  Hall,  had 
been  sneered  at  every  where.  But  this  bank  waa 
a  ditferent  thing.  Many  began  to  think  that  per- 
haps Potts  had  been  an  ill-used  and  slandered 
man.  He  had  been  Brandon's  agent,  but  who 
could  prove  any  thing  against  him  after  all  ? 

1  here  were  very  many  who  soon  felt  the  need  of 
the  i)eculiar  help  which  a  bank  can  give  if  it  only 
chooses.  Those  who  went  there  found  Potts 
marvelously  accommodating.  He  did  not  seem 
so  grasping  or  so  suspicious  as  other  bankers. 
They  got  what  they  w  anted,  laughed  at  his  pleas- 
ant jokes,  and  assured  every  body  that  he  was  a 
much-belied  man. 

Surely  it  was  by  some  special  inspiration  that 
Potts  hit  upon  this  idea  of  a  bank ;  if  he  wished 
to  make  people  look  kindly  upon  hin.,  to  "  be  to 
his  faults  a  little  blind,  and  to  his  virtues  very 
kind, "  he  could  not  have  conceived  any  better  or 
shorter  way  toward  the  accomplishment  of  so 
desirable  a  result. 

So  lenient  were  these  people  that  they  looked 
upon  all  those  who  took  part  in  the  bank  with 
equal  indulgence.  The  younger  Potts  was  con- 
sidered as  a  very  clever  man.  with  a  dry,  caustic 
humoi",  but  thoroughly  good  -  hearted,     (-lark. 


121 


CORD  AND  CRi?.ESE. 


one  of  the  directors,  wn<!  regarded  as  bluff,  and 
shrewd,  and  cautious,  but  full  of  the  milk  of  hu- 
man kindness ;  and  Thilips,  the  cushier,  was  uni- 
versally liked  on  account  of  his  gentle,  obsequious 
manner. 

So  wide-spread  and  so  active  were  the  opera- 
tions of  this  bank  that  people  stood  astonished 
and  had  nothing  to  say.  The  amount  of  their 
acci  mmodations  was  enormous.  Those  who  at 
first  considered  it  a  mushroom  concern  soon  dis- 
covered their  mistake ;  for  the  Urandon  Bank  had 
connections  in  London  which  seemed  to  give  the 
command  of  unlimited  means,  and  any  sum  what- 
ever that  might  be  needed  was  at  once  advanced 
where  the  security  was  at  all  reliable.  Nor  was 
the  bank  particular  about  security.  John  Potts 
professed  to  trust  nuich  to  ])eople's  faces  and  to 
their  character,  and  there  were  times  when  he 
would  take  the  security  without  looking  at  it,  or 
even  decline  it  and  be  satisfied  with  the  name. 

In  less  than  a  year  the  bank  had  succeeded  in 
gaining  the  fullest  confidence  even  of  those  who 
liad  at  first  been  most  skeptical,  and  John  Potts 
had  grown  to  be  considered  without  doubt  one  of 
the  most  considerable  men  in  the  county. 

One  day  in  March  Jolm  Potts  was  sitting  in 
the  parlor  of  the  bank  when  a  gentleman  walked 
in  who  seemed  to  be  about  sixty  years  of  age. 
He  had  a  slight  stoop,  and  carried  a  gold-headed 
cane.  He  was  dressed  in  black,  had  gray  hair, 
and  a  very  heavy  gray  beard  and  mustache. 

"Have  I  the  honor  of  addressing  Mr.  I'otts  ?"' 
said  the  stranger,  in  a  peculiarly  high,  shrill  voice. 

"I'm  Mr.  l\»tts,"  saia  the  other. 

The  stranger  thereu]jon  drew  a  letter  from  his 
pocket-book  and  handed  it  to  Potts.  The  letter 
was  a  short  one,  and  the  moment  Potts  had  read 
it  he  sprang  up  and  held  out  his  hand  eagei  ly. 

"Mr.  iSmithers,  ISir! — you're  welcome,  l»ir, 
I'm  sure,  iSir!  Proud  and  happy.  Sir,  to  see 
you,  I'm  surel''  said  Potts,  with  great  volubility. 

Mr.  Smithers,  however,  did  not  seem  to  see  his 
hand,  but  seated  himself  leisurely  on  a  chair,  and 
looked  for  a  moment  at  the  ojjposite  wall  like  one 
in  thought. 

He  was  a  singidar- looking  old  man.  His  skin 
was  fresh  ;  theie  was  a  grand,  stern  air  upon  his 
brow  when  it  was  in  rej)Ose.  The  lower  j)art  of 
Ills  face  was  hidilen  by  his  beard,  and  its  ex])res- 
sioii  was  tlieref)re  lost.  His  eyes,  however, 
were  singularly  large  and  luminous,  althougli  he 
wore  spectacles  and  generally  looked  at  the  fioor. 

"I  have  but  recently  returned  from  a  tour," 
said  he,  in  the  same  voice ;  '  •  and  my  junior  part- 
ner has  managed  all  the  business  in  my  absence, 
which  has  lasted  more  than  a  year.  I  had  not 
the  honor  of  being  acquainted  with  yotu-  banking- 
house  when  I  left,  and  as  I  had  business  up  this 
way  I  thought  I  would  call  on  you." 

"Proud,  Sir,  and  most  happy  to  welcome  you 
A)  our  modest  parlor,"  said  Potts,  olisequious- 
ly.  "  This  is  a  ])leasin"e — indeed  I  may  say,  Sir, 
a  privilege — which  I  have  long  wished  to  have. 
In  fact,  I  have  never  seen  your  jiniior  ])artner, 
Sir,  any  more  than  yourself.  I  have  only  seen 
your  agents,  Sir,  and  have  gone  on  and  done  my 
large  business  with  you  by  writing. " 

Mr.  Smithers  bowed. 

"Quite  so,"  said  he.     "We  have  so  many 
connections  in  all  parts  of  the  world  that  it  is  im-  1 
possible  to  have  the  pleasure  of  a  personal  ac-  I 
quaintance  with  them  all.     Tliere  are  some  with 


whom  wc  have  much  Wgar  transactions  than 
yourself  whom  I  have  never  seen. " 

"Indeed,  ^ir!"  exclaimed  Potts,  witli  gteat 
surprise.  "Then  you  must  do  a  larger  business 
than  I  thought." 

■'We  do  a  large  business,"  said  Mr.  Smiiheis, 
thoughtfully. 

' '  And  all  over  the  world,  you  said.  Then  you 
must  be  worth  millions." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  one  can  not  do  a  business  like 
ours,  that  commands  monev,  without  a  large  cap- 
ital." 

"Are  theio  luany  who  do  a  larger  business 
than  I  do  ? ' 

"Oh  yes.  In  New  York  the  house  of  Peyton 
Brothers  do  a  business  of  ten  times  the  amount — 
yes,  twenty  times.  In  San  Francisco  a  new 
house,  jist  started  since  the  gold  discoveries,  has 
done  a  business  witli  us  almost  as  large.  In 
Bombay  Messrs.  Kickerson,  Bolton,  &  Co.  are 
our  correspondents ;  in  Calcutta  Messrs.  Hoster- 
mann,  Jennings,  &  Black ;  in  Hong  Kong  Messrs. 
Nay  lor  &  'I'ibbetts  ;  iu  Sydney  Messrs.  Sandford 
I'c  Perley.  Besides  the.'-e,  we  have  correspond- 
ents through  Europe  and  in  all  parts  of  Englaijd 
who  do  a  mu(  h  larger  business  than  yours.  But 
I  thought  you  were  aware  of  this,"  said  Mr. 
Smithers,  looking  with  a  swift  glance  at  I'otts. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Potts,  hastily; 
"I  knew  your  business  was  enormous,  but  J 
tiiought  our  dealings  with  you  were  consider- 
able. ' 

"Oh,  you  are  doing  a  snug  business,"  said 
'mithers,  in  a  patronizing  tone.  "  It  is  o:r."  cus- 
tom whenever  we  ha\e  correspondents  who  are 
sound  men  to  encourage  them  to  the  iitinost. 
This  is  the  reason  why  you  have  always  found  us 
liberal  and  jjrompt." 

"You  have  done  great  service,  Sir,"  raid 
Potts.  "  In  fact,  you  have  made  the  Brant'.on 
Bank  what  it  is  to-day." 

"  Well, "  said  Smithers,  "  we  have  agents  every 
where ;  we  heard  that  this  bank  wrts  talked  about, 
and  knowing  the  concern  to  be  in  sure  hands  we 
took  it  up.  My  Junior  has  made  arrangements 
with  you  which  he  says  have  been  satisfactory." 

"  \'ery  much  so  to  me,"  reidied  Potts.  "You 
have  always  f  ;und  the  money. " 

"And  you,  I  suppose,  have  furnished  the  se- 
curities." 

"  Yes.  and  a  precious  good  lot  of  them  you  are 
now  holding." 

"I  dare  say,"  said  Smithers;  "  for  my  part  I 
have  nothing  to  do  witli  the  books.  I  merelj-  at- 
tend to  the  general  afi'airs,  and  trust  to  my  Jun- 
ior for  particulars." 

' '  And  you  don't  know  the  exact  state  of  our 
business?"  said  Potts,  in  a  tone  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

"No.  How  should  1?  The  only  ones  wiih 
which  I  am  familiar  are  our  American,  European, 
and  Eastern  agencies.  Our  English  correspond- 
ents are  maruxged  by  my  Junior." 

"  You  must  be  one  of  the  largest  houses  in 
London,"  said  Potts,  in  a  tone  of  deep  admira- 
tion. 

"Oh  yes." 

' '  Strange  I  never  heard  of  you  till  two  years 
ago  or  so. " 

"Very  likely." 

"Tliere  was  a  friend  of  mine  who  was  telling 
me  something  about  some  Sydney  merchants  who 


CORD  AND  CREESE, 


125 


were  sending  consignments  of  wool  to  you. 
Conipton  &  Ikandon.     Do  you  know  them?" 

"1  Imve  heard  my  Junior  speak  of  them." 

"You  were  in  Sydney,  were  you  not?" 

"Yes,  on  my  last  tour  I  touched  *here." 

"Dc  you  know  Conipton  &  Brandon?" 

"  I  looked  in  to  see  them.  I  think  Brandon 
is  dead,  isn't  he?  Drowned  at  sea — or  some- 
thing of  that  sort?"  said  Smithers,  indiffer- 
ently. 

""Yes,"  said  Potts. 

"  Are  you  familiar  with  the  banking  business  ?" 
r.sked  Smithers,  suddenly. 

"Well,  no,  not  very.  I  hnven't  had  much 
experience;  but  I'm  growing  into  it." 

"Ah I  I  suppose  your  directors  are  good 
business  men  ?" 

"Somewhat;  but  the  fact  is,  I  trust  a  good 
deal  to  mv  cashier. " 

"Who'ishe?" 

"His  name  is  Philips,  a  very  clever  man;  a 
first-rate  accountant." 

"That's  right.  Very  much  indeed  depends 
on  the  cashier.' 

"  He  is  a  most  useful  and  reliable  man." 

"Your  business  appears  to  be  growing,  from 
r.hat  I  have  heard." 

"  Very  fast  mdeed,  Sir.  Why,  Sir,  in  another 
year  I  expect  to  control  this  whole  county  finan- 
cially. 'I'liere  is  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't. 
Every  one  of  my  moves  is  successful." 

"  That  is  right.  The  true  mode  of  success  in 
a  business  like  yours  is  boldness.  That  is  the 
.secret  of  my  success.  Perhaps  you  ar^  not 
aware,"  continued  Mr.  Smithers,  in  a  confiden- 
tial tone,  "that  I  began  with  very  little.  A  few 
thousands  of  pounds  formed  my  capital.  But 
my  motto  was  boldness,  and  now  I  am  worth  I 
will  not  say  how  many  millions.  If  you  want  to 
r.iake  money  fast  you  must  be  bold." 

"Did  you  make  your  money  by  banking?" 
nsked  Potts,  eagerly. 

"No.  Much  of  it  was  made  in  that  way,  but 
I  have  embarked  in  all  kinds  of  enterprises; 
foreign  loans,  railway  scrip,  and  ventures  in 
t^tock  of  all  sorts.  I  have  lost  millions,  but  I 
have  made  ten  times  more  than  ever  I  lost.  If 
you  want  to  make  money,  you  must  go  on  the 
same  plan." 

"Well,  I'm  sure,"  said  Potts,  "I'm  bold 
enough.  I'm  enlarging  my  business  eveiy  day 
in  all  directions." 

"That's  right." 

"I  control  the  county  now,  and  hope  in  an- 
other vear  to  do  so  in  a  different  way." 

"How  so?" 

"  I'm  thinking  of  setting  up  for  Parliament — " 

"An  excellent  idea,  if  it  will  not  injui-e  the 
business." 

"Oh,  it  will  not  hurt  it  at  all.  Philips  can 
manage  it  all  under  my  directions.  Besides,  I 
don't  mind  telling  a  friend  like  you  that  this  is 
the  dream  of  my  life. " 

"A  very  laudable  aim,  no  doubt,  to  those  who 
have  a  genius  for  statesmanship.  But  that  is  a 
thing  which  is  altogether  out  of  my  line.  I  keep 
to  business.  And  now,  as  my  time  is  limited,  I 
must  not  stay  longer.  I  will  only  add  that  my 
impressions  are  favorable  about  your  bank,  and 
you  may  rely  upon  us  to  any  extent  to  co-oper- 
ate with  you  in  any  sound  enterprise.  Go  on 
and  enlarge  your  business,  and  draw  on  us  for 


'  what  you  want  as  l)efore.  If  I  were  you  I 
I  would  embark  all  my  available  means  in  this 
I  bank." 

"  Well,  I'm  gradually  comiug  vo  that,  I  think," 
said  Potts. 

"Then,  when  you  get  large  deposits,  as  you 
must  expect,  that  will  give  you  additional  capi- 
tal to  work  on.  The  best  way  when  you  have  a 
bank  is  to  use  your  cash  in  speculating  in  stocks. 
Have  you  tried  that  yet  ?  ' 

"  Yes,  but  not  much. " 

"  If  you  wish  any  thing  of  that  kind  done  wo 
will  do  it  for  you." 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  are  the  best  invest- 
ments." 

"Oh,  that  is  very  easily  found  out.  But  if 
you  can't  learn,  we  will  let  you  know.  The  Mex- 
ican Loan  just  now  is  the  most  promising.  Some 
of  the  California  companies  are  working  quietly, 
and  getting  enormous  dividends." 

"California?"  said  Potts;    "that  ought  to 

pay-" 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  like  it.  I  cleared  near- 
ly half  a  million  in  a  few  months." 

"A  few  months!"  cried  Potts,  opening  his 
eyes. 

"Yes,  we  have  agents  who  keep  us  well  up; 
and  so,  you  know,  we  are  able  to  speculate  to 
the  best  advantage." 

"  (California!"  said  Potts,  thoughtfully.  "  I 
should  like  to  try  that  above  all  things.  It  has 
a  good  sound.     It  is  like  the  chink  of  cash." 

"Yes,  you  get  the  pure  gold  out  of  that. 
There's  nothing  like  it. " 

"Do  you  know  any  chances  for  speculation 
there  ? ' 

"Yes,  one  or  two." 

"Would  vou  have  anj'  objection  to  let  me 
know  ? ' 

"  Not  in  the  least — it  will  extend  your  busi- 
ness. I  will  ask  my  .Junior  to  send  you  any  par- 
ticulars you  may  desire." 

"This  California  business  must  be  the  best 
there  is,  if  all  I  hear  is  true." 

"You  haven't  heard  the  real  truth." 

"Haven't  I?"  exclaimed  Potts,  in  wonder. 
"  I  thought  it  was  exaggerated." 

"I  could  tell  you  stories  far  more  wonderful 
than  any  thing  you  have  heard." 

"Tell  me!'  cried  Potts,  breathlessly. 

"Well, "said  Smithers.  confidentially,  "J don't 
mind  telling  you  something  which  is  known,  I'm 
sorry  to  say,  in  certain  circles  in  London,  and  is 
already  being  acted  on.  One-half  of  our  fortune 
has  been  made  in  California  operatio.is." 

"You  don't  say  so!" 

"You  see  I've  always  been  bold,"  continued 
Smithers,  with  an  air  of  still  greater  confidence. 
"I  read  some  time  since  in  one  of  Humboldt's 
books  about  gold  being  there.  At  the  first  news 
of  the  discovery  I  chartered  a  ship  and  went 
out  at  once.  1  took  every  thing  that  could  be 
needed.  On  arriving  at  San  Francisco,  where 
there  were  already  very  many  people,  I  sold  the 
cargo  at  an  enormous  profit,  and  hired  the  ship 
as  a  warehouse  at  enormous  prices.  I  then  or- 
ganized a  mining  company,  and  put  a  first-rate 
man  at  the  head  of  it.  They  found  a  jilace  on 
the  Sacramento  River  where  the  gold  really  seems 
inexhaustible.  I  worked  it  for  some  months,  and 
'orwarded  two  millions  sterling  to  London.  Then 
1  left,  and  my  company  is  still  working." 


J36 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


"Why  did  you  leave?"  asked  Potts,  breath- 
leealy. 

"Because  I  could  make  more  money  by  being 
in  London.  My  man  there  is  reliable.  I  have 
bound  him  to  us  by  giving  him  a  share  in  the 
business.  People  soon  found  out  that  Smithers 
&  C'o.  had  made  enormous  sums  of  money  in 
California,  but  they  don't  know  exactly  how. 
The  immense  expansion  of  our  business  during 
the  last  year  has  filled  them  with  wonder.  For 
you  know  every  piece  of  gold  that  I  sent  home 
has  been  utilized  by  my  Junior." 

Potts  was  silent,  and  sat  looking  in  breathless 
admiration  at  this  millionaire.  All  his  thoughts 
were  seen  iu  his  face.  His  whole  heart  was  laid 
bare,  and  the  one  thing  visible  was  an  intense 
desire  to  share  in  that  golden  enterprise. 

"I  have  organized  two  companies  on  the  same 
principle  as  the  last.  The  shares  are  selling  at  a 
large  premium  in  the  London  market.  I  take  a 
leading  part  in  each,  and  my  name  gives  stability 
to  the  enterprise.  If  I  find  the  thing  likely  to 
succeed  I  continue ;  if  not,  why,  I  can  easily  sell 
out.  I  am  on  the  point  of  organizing  a  third 
company." 

"Are  the  shares  taken  up?"  cried  Potts,  ea- 
gerly. 

"No,  not  yet." 

"Well,  could  I  obtain  some?" 

* '  I  really  can't  say, "  replied  Smithers.  ' '  You 
might  make  an  application  to  my  Junior.  I  do 
nothing  whatever  with  the  details.  I  don't  know 
what  plans  or  agreements  he  may  have  been 
making." 

"  I  should  like  exceedingly  vo  take  stock.  How 
do  the  shares  sell?" 

"The  price  is  high,  as  we  wish  to  confine  our 
shareholders  to  the  richer  classes.  We  never  put 
it  at  less  than  illOOO  a  share." 

"  I  would  take  any  quantity." 

"  I  dare  say  some  may  be  in  the  market  yet," 
said  Smithers,  calmly.  "  They  probably  sell  at 
a  high  premium  though." 

"I'd  pay  it,"  said  Potts. 

"Well,  you  may  write  and  see;  I  know  no- 
thing about  it." 

"  And  if  they're  all  taken  up,  what  then  ?" 

"Oh — then — I  really  don't  know.  Why  can't 
you  organize  a  com])any  yourself?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  1  dout  know  any  thing  about 
the  place. " 

"True;  that  is  a  disadvantage.  But  you 
might  find  some  people  who  do  know." 

"That  would  be  very  diflicult.  I  do  not  see 
how  we  could  begin.  And  if  I  did  find  any  one, 
how  could  I  trust  him  ?" 

"  You'd  have  to  do  as  I  did — give  him  a  share 
of  the  business. " 

"  It  would  be  much  better  if  I  could  get  some 
stock  in  one  of  your  companies.  Your  experience 
and  credit  would  make  it  a  success. " 

"Yes,  there  is  no  doubt  that  our  companies 
would  all  be  successful  since  we  have  a  man  on 
the  spot." 

"And  that's  another  reason  why  I  should  pre- 
fer buying  stock  from  you.  You  see  I  might  form 
a  company,  but  what  could  I  do  ?" 

"  Could  not  your  cashier  help  you  ?" 

"  No,  not  in  any  thing  of  that  sort." 

"  Well,  I  can  say  nothing  about  it.  My  Junior 
will  tell  you  what  chances  there  are."' 

"  But  while  I  see  you  personally  I  should  be 


glad  if  you  would  consent  to  give  me  a  chance. 
Have  you  any  objection  ?" 

"Oh  no.  I  will  mention  your  case  the  next 
time  I  write,  if  you  wish  it.  Still  I  can  not  con- 
trol the  particular  operations  of  the  ofiice.  ^Iv 
control  is  supreme  in  general  matters,  and  yo'u 
see  it  would  not  be  possible  for  me  to  interfere 
with  the  smaller  details." 

"  StiU  you  might  mention  me." 

"I  will  do  so,"  said  Smithers,  and  taking  out 
his  pocket-book  he  prepared  to  write. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  he,  "your  Christian 
name  is — what  ?" 

"John— John  Potts." 

"  John  Potts,"  repeated  the  other,  as  he  wrote 
it  down. 

Smithers  rose.  "  You  may  continue  to  draw 
on  us  as  before,  and  any  purchases  of  stock  which 
you  wish  will  be  made  " 

Potts  thanked  him  profusely. 

"I  wish  to  see  your  cashier,  to  learn  his  mode 
of  managing  the  accounts.  Much  depends  on 
that,  and  a  short  conversation  will  satisfy  me. " 

"Certainly,  Sir,  certainly,"  said  Potts,  obse- 
quiously.    "  Philips !"  he  called. 

Philips  came  in  as  timid  and  as  shiinking  as 
usual. 

' '  This  is  Mr.  Smithers,  the  great  Smithers  of 
Smithers  &  Co.,  Bankers;  he  wishes  to  have  a 
talk  with  you." 

Philips  looked  at  the  great  man  with  deep  re- 
spect and  made  an  awkward  bow. 

"You  may  come  with  me  to  my  hotel,"  said 
Smithers ;  and  with  a  slight  bow  to  Potts  he  left 
the  bank,  followed  by  Philips. 

He  went  up  stairs  and  into  a  large  parlor  on 
the  second  story,  which  looked  into  the  street. 
He  motioned  Philips  to  a  chau-  near  rhe  window, 
and  seated  himself  in  an  ann-chair  opposite. 

Smithers  looked  at  the  other  with  a  searching 
glance,  and  said  nothing  for  some  time.  His 
large,  fall  eyes,  as  they  fixed  themselves  on  the 
face  of  the  other,  seemed  to  read  his  inmost 
thoughts  and  study  every  part  of  his  weak  and 
irresolute  character. 

At  length  he  said,  abruptly,  in  a  slow,  meas- 
ured voice,  "  Edgar  Lawton !" 

At  the  sound  of  this  name  Philips  started  from 
his  chair,  and  stood  on  his  feet  trembling.  His 
face,  always  pale,  now  became  ashen,  his  lips 
turned  white,  his  jaw  fell,  his  eyes  seemed  to 
start  from  their  sockets.  He  stood  for  a  few 
seconds,  then  sank  back  into  a  chair. 

Smithers  eyed  him  steadfastly.  "You  see  I 
know  you,"  said  he,  after  a  time. 

Philips  cast  on  him  an  imploring  look. 

"The  fact  that  I  know  your  name,"  contin- 
ued Smithers,  "shows  also  that  I  must  know 
something  of  your  histoiT.  Do  not  forget 
that!" 

"My — my  historj'?"  faltered  Philips. 

"Yes,  your  history.  I  know  it  all,  wTetched 
man !  I  knew  your  father  whom  you  ruined,  and 
whose  heart  you  broke. " 

Philips  said  not  a  word,  but  again  turned  an 
imploring  face  to  this  man. 

' '  I  hava  brought  you  here  to  let  you  know  that 
there  is  one  who  holds  you  in  his  power,  and  that 
one  is  myself.  You  think  Potts  or  Clark  have 
you  at  their  mercy.  Not  so.  I  alone  hold,  your 
fate  in  my  hands.  They  dare  not  do  any  thing 
against  you  for  fear  of  their  own  necks." 


CORD  ANn  CREESE. 


127 


Phiiiiw  looked  up  now  in  wonder,  which  was 
greater  than  his  fear. 

"Why,"  he  faltered,  "you  are  Potts's  friend. 
You  got  him  to  start  the  bank,  and  you  have  ad- 
vanced him  mone)'." 

"You  are  the  cashier,"  said  Smithers,'calnily. 
"Can  you  tell  me  how  much  the  Brandon  Bank 
owes  Smithers  &  Co.  ?" 

Philips  looked  at  the  other  and  hesitated. 

"Sjieak:' 

"Two  hundred  and  eighty -nine  thousand 
pounds. " 

' '  And  if  Smithers  &  Co.  chose  to  demand  pay- 
ment to-m.orrow,  do  you  think  the  Brandon  Bank 
would  be  prompt  about  it  ?" 

Piiilips  shook  his  head. 

"  Then  you  see  that  the  man  whom  yoa  faar 
is  not  so  powerful  as  some  others." 


j      "I  thought  you  were  his  f  i"iid ?" 

"  Do  you  know  who  I  am  T 

"  Smithers  &  Co.,"  said  Philips,  weaiily. 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you  the  plans  of  Smilliers  & 
Co.  are  lieyond  your  comprehension.  >\  heilier 
they  ai  e  friends  to  Potts  or  not,  it  seems  that  t  liey 
are  his  creditors  to  an  amount  which  it  would  Iiu 
difficult  for  him  to  pay  if  thev  chose  to  deiur.ml 
it." 

Philips  looked  up.  He  caught  sight  of  tl:3 
eyes  of  Smithers,  which  blazed  like  two  davk, 
fiery  orbs  as  they  were  fastened  upon  him.  lie 
shuddered. 

"  I  merely  wished  to  show  you  the  weakness 
of  the  man  whom  you  fear.  Shall  I  tell  you 
something  else  ?" 

Philips  looked  up  fearfully. 

"  I  have  been  in  York,  in  Calcutta,  and  in  Ma- 


13d 


:ORD  AND  CREESE. 


nillix ;  nnd  I  I  nov.-  what  Potts  did  in  each  place. 
You  look  frightened.  You  have  every  reason  to* 
l)C  so.  1  know  what  was  done  at  York.  I  know 
that  you  were  sent  to  Botany  Bay.  I  know  that 
yon  ran  away  from  your  father  to  India.  I  know 
yo!ir  life  there.  1  know  how  narrowly  you  es- 
Mtped  going  on  board  the  Vishnu,  and  l)eing  im- 
{.licated  in  the  Manilla  murder.  Madman  that 
yi)i  were,  why  did  you  not  take  your  jKior  mo- 
ther and  fly  from  these  wretches  forever?" 

Philips  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  He. said 
nut  a  word,  but  bowed  his  head  upon  bis  kneeii 
niul  wept. 

"  Where  is  she  now?"  said  Smithers,  sternly. 
Philips  mechanically  raised  his  head,  and  point- 
ed over  toward  Brandon  Hall. 

"  Is  she  confined  against  her  will?" 

Philips  shook  his  head. 

"  She  stays,  then,  through  love  of  you  ?" 

Philips  nodded. 

"Is  any  one  else  there?"  said  Smithers,  after 
a  pause,  and  in  a  strange,  sad  voice,  in  which 
there  was  a  faltering  tone  which  Philips,  in  his 
flight,  did  not  notice. 

"Miss  Potts," he  said. 

"  She  is  treated  cruelly, "  said  Smithers.  ' '  They 
say  she  is  a  prisoner  ?" 

Philips  nodded. 

"Has  she  been  sick?"  ' 

"  Yes." 

"How  long?" 

"  Eight  months,  last  year." 

"  Is  she  well  now  ?" 

"Yes." 

Smithers  bowed  his  head  in  silence,  and  put 
his  hand  on  his  heart.  Philips  watched  him  in 
an  agony  of  fright,  as  though  every  instant  he 
>'.  as  apprehensive  of  some  terrible  calamity. 

"How  is  she?"  continued  Smithers,  after  a 
time.  "  Has  she  ever  been  happy  since  she  went 
tiiere?" 

Philips  shook  his  head  slowly  and  mournfully. 

"Does  her  father  ever  show  her  any  affec- 
tion?" 
.       "Never." 
t       "Does  her  brother?" 

"Never." 

"  Is  there  any  one  who  doea  ?" 

"Y'es."  .      i 

"Who?" 

"Mrs.  Compton." 

"Your  mother?" 

"Yes." 
'       "  I  wiil  not  forget  that.     No,  I  will  never  for 
get  that.     Do  you  think  that  she  is  exposed  to 
any  danger  ?" 

"Miss  Potts?" 

Smithers  bowed. 

"  I  don't  know.    I  sometimes  fear  so." 

"Of  what  kind?" 

"I  don't  know.  Almost  any  horrible  thing 
may  happen  in  that  horrible  place." 

A  pang  of  agony  shot  across  the  sombre  brow 
of  Smithers.     He  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"Have  you  ever  slighte-l  her?"  he  asked  at 
last. 

"Never,"  cried  Philips.  "I  could  worship 
her—" 

Smithers  smiled  upon  him  with  a  smile  so 
sweet  that  it  chased  all  Pliiiips's  fears  away. 
He  took  courage  and  bepan  to  show  more  calm. 

"Fear  nothing,"  said  Smithers,  in  a  gentle 


voice.  "  I  see  that  in  spite  of  your  follies  and 
crimes  there  is  something  good  in  you  yet.  You 
love  your  mother,  do  you  not  ?" 

Tears  came  into  Philips's  eyes.  He  sighed. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  humbly. 

"  And  you  are  kind  to  her — that  other  one?" 

"  I  love  her  as  my  mother,"  said  Philips,  earn- 
estly. 

Smithers  again  relapsed  into  silence  for  a  long 
time.  At  last  he  looked  up.  Philips  saw  his 
eyes  this  time,  no  longer  stem  and  wrathful,  but 
benignant  and  indulgent. 

"  You  have  been  uU  your  life  under  the  power 
of  merciless  men,"  said  he.  "You  have  been 
led  by  them  into  folly  and  crime  and  suffering. 
Often  you  have  been  forced  to  act  against  your 
will.  Poor  wretch  I  I  can  save  ytui,  and  I  in- 
tend to  do  so  in  spite  of  yourself.  You  fear 
these  masters  of  yours.  You  must  know  now 
that  I,  not  they,  am  to  be  feared.  They  know 
your  secret  but  dare  not  use  it  against  you.  I 
know  it,  and  can  use  it  if  I  choose.  You  have 
been  afraid  of  them  all  your  life.  Fear  them  no 
longer,  but  fear  me.  These  men  whorii  you  fear 
are  in  my  power  as  well  as  you  are.  I  know  all 
their  secrets — there  is  not  a  crime  of  theirs  of 
which  you  know  that  I  do  not  know  also,  and  I 
know  far  more. 

"  You  must  from  this  time  forth  be  my  agent. 
Smithers  &  Co.  have  agents  in  all  parts  of  the 
world.  You  shall  be  their  agent  in  Brandon 
Hall.  You  shall  say  nothing  of  this  interview  to 
any  one,  not  even  to  your  mother — you  shall  not 
dare  to  communicate  with  me  unless  you  are  re- 
quested, except  about  such  things  as  I  shall 
specify.  If  you  dare  to  shrink  in  any  one  point 
from  your  duty,  at  that  instant  I  will  come  down 
upon  you  with  a  heavy  hand.  You,  too,  are 
watched.  I  have  other  agents  here  in  Brandon 
besides  yourself  Many  of  those  who  go  to  the 
bank  as  customers  are  my  agents.  You  can  not 
be  false  without  my  knowing  it ;  and  when  you 
are  false,  that  moment  you  shall  be  handed  over 
to  the  authorities.     Do  you  hear?' 

The  face  of  Smithers  was  mild,  but  his  tone 
was  stem.  It  was  the  warning  of  a  just  yet 
merciful  master.  All  the  timid  nature  of  Philips 
bent  in  deep  subjection  before  the  powerful  spirit 
of  this  man.     He  bowed  his  head  in  silence. 

"Whenever  an  order  comes  to  you  from 
Smithers  &  Co.  you  must  obey ;  if  you  do  not 
obey  instantly  whatever  it  is,  it  will  be  at  the 
risk  of  your  life.     Do  you  hear  ?" 

Philips  bowed. 

"  There  is  only  one  thing  now  in  which  I  wish 
you  to  do  any  thing.  You  must  send  every  month 
a  notice  directed  to  Mr.  Smithers,  Senior,  about 
the  health  of  his  daur/hter.  Should  any  sudden 
danger  impend  you  must  at  once  communicate 
it.     Y^ou  understand  ?" 

Philips  bowed. 

"  Once  more  I  warn  you  always  to  remember 
that  I  am  your  master.  Fail  in  one  single  thing, 
and  you  perish.  Obey  me,  and  you  shall  be  re- 
warded.    Now  go !" 

Philips  rose,  and,  more  dead  than  alive,  tot- 
tered from  the  room. 

When  he  left  Smithers  locked  the  door.     He 

then  went  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  at 

Brandon  Hall,  with  his  stem  face  softened  into 

sadness.     He  hummed  low  words  as  he  stood 

,  there — words  which  once  had  been  sung  far  awai'. 


CORD  AND  CREESF:. 


129 


Among  them  were  these,  with  which  the  strain 
ended: 

"Ann  the  »ad  memory  of  oar  life  below 
8ball  but  uuite  nx  cio«er  evermore ; 
No  net  tif  ttitue  Hhall  loose 
Thee  from  the  eternal  bund, 
Nor  vhall  KevetiL'c  have  power 
To  di-Hunlte  us  tliere!" 

W'iih  a  sigh  he  sat  down  and  buried  his  face 
in  hi.-t  hands.  His  gray  hnir  loosened  and  fell 
off  as  he  sat  there.  A'  last  lie  raised  iiis  head, 
and  revealed  the  face  or  a  young  man  whose  dark 
hair  showed  the  gray  beard  to  be  false. 

Yet  when  he  once  more  put  on  his  wig  none 
but  a  most  intimate  friend  with  the  closest  scruti- 
ny could  recognize  there  the  featm'es  of  Louis 
Brandon. 


CHAFPER  XXXI. 

PAOLO     LANGHETTI. 

Mant  weeks  passed  on,  and  music  still  formed 
the  chief  occupation  in  life  for  IJespard  and  Mrs. 
Thornton.  His  journey  to  Brandon  village  had 
been  without  result.  He  knew  not  what  to  do. 
The  inquiries  which  he  made  every  where  turned 
out  useless.  Finally  Thornton  infonned  him  that 
it  was  utterly  hopeless,  at  a  period  so  long  after 
the  event,  to  attempt  to  do  any  thing  whatever. 
Enough  had  been  done  long  ago.  Now  nothing 
more  <^ould  possibly  be  effected. 

Baffled,  but  not  daunted,  Daspard  fell  back 
for  the  present  fom  his  purpose,  yet  still  cher- 
ished it  and  wrote  to  different  quarters  fpr  in- 
formation. Meantime  he  had  to  return  to  his 
lir^  at  Hoiby,  and  Mi-s.  Thornton  was  still  ready 
to  assist  him. 

80  the  time  went  on,  and  the  weeks  passefl, 
till  one  day  in  March  Despard  went  up  as  usual. 

Un  entering  the  parlor  he  heard  voices,  and 
saw  a  stranger.  Mrs.  Thornton  greeted  him  as 
usual  and  sat  down  smiling.  The  stranger  rose, 
and  he  and  Despard  looked  at  one  another. 

He  was  of  medium  size  and  slight  in  figure. 
His  brow  was  very  broad  and  high.  His  hair 
was  black,  and  clustered  in  curls  over  his  head. 
His  eyes  were  large,  and  seemed  to  possess  an 
unfathomable  depth,  wliich  gave  them  a  certain 
undefinable  and  myst'c  r.ieaning — liquid  eyes,  yet 
lustrous,  where  all  the  soul  seemed  to  live  and 
show  itself — benignant  in  their  glance,  yet  lofty, 
like  the  eyes  of  a  being  from  some  superior  sphere. 
His  fate  was  thin  and  shaven  close,  his  lips  also 
vere  thin,  with  a  i)erpetual  smile  of  marvelous 
sweetness  and  gentleness  hovering  about  them. 
It  was  such  a  face  as  artists  love  to  give  to  the 
Aposile  John — the  sublime,  the  divine,  the  lov- 
ing, the  inspired. 

*•  You  do  not  know  him,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 
"It  is  Paolo!" 

Despard  at  once  advanced  and  greeted  him 
with  the  warmest  cordiality. 

"  I  was  only  a  little  fellow  when  I  saw  yon 
lust,  and  you  have  changed  somewhat  since 
then,"  said  Despard.  "But  when  did  yon  ar- 
rive? I  knew  that  you  were  expected  in  En- 
gland, but  was  not  sure  that  you  would  come 
here." 

"What!  Teresuoh  viia"  said  Langhetti, 
with  a  fond  .^mile  nt  his  sister.  "  Were  you 
really  not  sure,  soreltina,  that  I  woidd  come  to 


see  you  fii.-t  of  all?    Infidel!"  and  he  shook  bis 
head  at  iiuf,  ])layfully. 

A  long  conversation  followed,  chiefly  abont 
I.^nghetti's  plans.  He  was  going  to  engage  a 
place  in  London  for  his  opera,  but  wished  tirsc  to 
secure  a  singer.  Oh,  if  he  only  could  find  Bieo 
— his  Bicina,  the  divinest  voice  that  mortal  ever 
heard. 

Despard  and  Mrs.  Thornton  exchanged  glances, 
and  at  last  Desj)ard  told  him  that  there  was  a 
person  of  the  same  name  at  Brandon  Hall.  She 
was  living  in  a  seclusion  so  strict  that  it  seemed 
confinement,  and  there  was  a  mystery  about  her 
situation  which  he  had  tried  without  success  to 
fathom. 

Langhetti  listened  with  a  painful  surprise  that 
seemetl  like  positive  anguish. 

"Then  I  must  go  myself     Oh,  my  Bicina — 
to  what  misery  have  you  come —    But  do  you 
sav  that  you  have  been  there  ?" 
'"Yes." 

"Did you  go  to  the  Hall?"         .       . 

"No.'*^ 

"Why  not?" 

' '  Because  I  know  the  man  to  be  a  villain  in- 
describable— " 

Langhetti  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  saiil, 

"  True,  he  is  all  that,  and  perhaps  more  than 
you  imagine." 

"I  have  done  the  utmost  that  can  be  done!" 
said  Despard. 

"Perhaps  so;  still  each  one  wishes  to  try  for 
himself,  and  though  I  can  scarce  hope  to  be 
more  successful  than  you,  yet  I  must  try,  if  only 
for  my  own  peace  of  mind.  Oh,  Bicina  cara  f 
to  think  of  her  sweet  and  gentle  nature  being 
subject  to  such  torments  as  those  ruffians  can  in- 
flict! 

"  You  do  not  know  how  it  is,"  said  he  at  last, 
very  solemnly;  "but  there  are  reasons  of  trans- 
cendent importance  why  Bice  should  be  rescued. 
I  can  not  tell  theia ;  but  if  1  dared  mention  what 
I  hope,  if  I  oidy  tl.ued  to  8f)eak  my  thoughts,  you 
— you,"  he  cried,  with  piercing  emphasis,  and  in 
a  tone  that  thrilled  through  i.)espaid,  to  whom 
he  spoke,  "you  would  make  it  the  aim  of  all 
your  lifa  to  save  her." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  saiil  Despard,  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"No,  no,"  murmured  Langhetti.  "You  do 
not ;  nor  dare  I  explain  Avhat  I  mean.  It  has 
been  in  my  thoi:ghts  for  years.  It  was  brought 
to  my  mind  first  in  Hong  Kong,  when  she  was 
there.  (Jnly  one  jjerson  besides  Potts  can  ex- 
plain ;  only  one. " 

"Who?"  cried  Despard,  eagerly. 

"  A  woman  named  Compton." 

"Compton!" 

"  Yes.  Perhaps  she  is  dead.  Alas,  and  alas, 
and  alas,  if  she  is!  Yet  could  I  but  see  that 
woman,  I  would  tear  the  truth  from  her  if  I 
perished  in  the  attempt!" 

And  Langhetti  stretched  out  his  long,  slender 
hand,  as  thougii  he  were  yducking  out  the  very 
heart  of  some  imaginary  enemy. 

"Think,  Teresuola,"  said  he,  afier  a  while, 
' '  if  you  were  in  captinty,  what  would  become 
of  my  opera  ?  Could  I  have  the  heart  to  think 
about  operas,  even  if  I  believed  that  they  con- 
tributed to  the  welfare  of  the  world,  if  your  weU 
fare  was  at  stake?  Now  you  know  that  next  t« 
you  stands  Bice.     I  must  try  and  save  her — I 


180 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


must  give  up  all.  Mv  opera  must  stand  aside 
till  it  be  God's  will  that  I  give  it  forth.  No,  the 
one  object  of  my  life  now  must  be  to  find  Bice, 
to  see  her  or  to  see  Mrs.  Compton,  if  she  is  alive." 

"  Is  the  secret  of  so  much  importance?"  asked 
Despard. 

Langhetti  looked  at  him  with  mournful  mean- 
ing. 

"iryou  but  suspected  it,"  said  he,  "your 
jKjace  of  mind  would  be  lost.  I  will  therefore  on 
no  account  tell  it." 

Despard  looked  at  hi"  wonderingly.  What 
could  he  mean  ?  How  could  any  one  atfect  him? 
His  peace  of  mind!  'Ihat  had  been  lost  long 
ai;o.  And  if  this  secret  was  so  terrible  it  would 
distract  his  mind  from  its  grief,  its  care,  and  its 
lunging.  Peace  would  be  restored  rather  than 
destroyed. 

"  I  must  find  her.  I  must  find  her,"  said 
Langhetti,  speaking  half  to  himself.  "I  am 
weak ;  but  much  con  be  done  by  a  resolute  will." 

'•  Perhaps  Mr.  Thornton  can  assist  you,"  said 
Despard. 

Langhetti  shook  his  head. 

"  No ;  he  is  a  man  of  law,  and  does  not  un- 
deratand  the  man  who  acts  fiom  feeling.  I  can 
be  as  logical  as  he,  but  I  obey  impulses  which  are 
unintelligible  to  him.  He  would  simply  advise 
me  to  give  up  the  matter,  adding,  perhaps,  that 
I  would  do  myself  no  good.  Whereas  he  can 
not  understand  that  it  makes  no  diiference  to  me 
Tvhether  I  do  myself  good  or  not;  and  again, 
that  the  highest  good  that  I  can  do  myself  ia  to 
seek  after  her." 

Mrs.  Thornton  looked  at  Despard,  but  he 
avoided  her  glance. 

"  No,"  said  Langhetti,  "  I  will  ask  assistance 
from  another — from  you,  Despard.  You  are  one 
who  acts  as  I  act.     Come  with  me." 

"When?" 

' '  To-morrow  morning. " 

"Iwill." 

"Of  course  you  will.  You  would  not  be  a 
Despard  if  you  did  not.  You  would  not  be  the 
son  of  your  father — your  father !"  he  repeated,  in 
thrilling  tones,  as  his  eyes  flashed  with  enthu- 
siasm. "  Despard  1"  he  cried,  after  a  pause, 
"your  father  was  a  man  whom  you  might  pray 
to  now.  I  saw  him  once.  Shall  I  ever  forget 
the  day  when  he  calmly  went  to  lay  down  his 
life  for  my  father  ?  Despard,  I  worship  your  fa- 
ther's memory.  Come  with  me.  Let  us  emu- 
late those  two  noble  men  who  once  before  res- 
cued a  captive.  We  can  not  risk  our  lives  as 
they  did.     Let  us  at  least  do  what  we  can." 

"  I  will  do  exactly  what  .you  say.  You  can 
tliink  and  I  will  act." 

"  No,  you  must  think  too.  Neither  of  us  be- 
long to  the  class  of  practical  men  whom  the 
world  now  delights  to  honor ;  but  no  practical 
man  would  go  on  our  errand.  No  practical  man 
would  have  rescued  my  father.  Generous  and 
lofty  acts  must  always  be  done  by  those  who  are 
not  practical  men. 

"But  I  must  go  out.  I  must  think,"  he 
continued.  "I  will  go  and  walk  about  the 
i^ounds." 

Saying  this  he  left  the  room. 

"  Where  is  Edith  Brandon  ?"  asked  Despard, 
after  he  had  gone. 

"  She  is  here,"  said  Mrs.  Thornton. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  ?" 


"Yes."  '•      - 

"  Is  she  what  you  anticipated  ?" 

"More.  She  is  indescribable.  She  is  alm^ist 
unearthly.  I  feel  awe  of  her,  but  not  fear.  Sli* 
is  too  sweet  to  inspire  fear. " 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

FLIGHT. 

The  last  entry  in  Beatrice's  journal  was  made 
by  her  in  the  hope  that  it  might  be  the  last. 

In  her  life  at  Brandon  Hall  her  soul  had 
grown  stronger  and  more  resolute.  Besides,  it 
had  now  come  to  this,  that  henceforth  she  must 

i  either  stay  and  accept  the  punishment  which  they 

;  might  contrive  or  fiy  instantly. 

For  she  had  dared  them  to  their  faces ;  she 
had  told  them  of  their  crimes ;  she  had  threat- 
ened punishment.  Mie  had  said  that  she  was 
the'avenger  of  Despnid.  If  she  had  desired  in- 
stant death  she  could  have  said  no  more  than 
that.  Would  they  pass  it  by  ?  She  knew  their 
secret — the  secret  of  secrets ;  she  had  proclaimed 
it  to  their  faces.  She  had  called  Potts  a  Thug 
and  disowned  him  as  her  father ;  what  now  re- 
mained ? 

But  one  thing— flight.  And  this  she  was  fully 
resolved  to  tiT.  bhe  prepared  nothing.  To  gain 
the  outside  world  was  all  she  wished.  The  need 
of  money  was  not  thought  of  ;■  nor  if  it  had  been 
would  it  have  made  any  ditlerence.  She  coukl 
not  have  obtained  it. 

The  one  idea  in  her  mind  was  therefore  flight. 
She  had  concealed  her  journal  under  a  loose 
piece  of  the  flooring  in  one  of  the  closets  of  her 
room,  being  unwilling  to  encumber  herself  with 
it,  and  dreading  tiie  result  of  a  search  in  case  she 
was  captured. 

She  made  no  other  preparations  whatever.  A 
light  hat  and  a  thin  jacket  were  all  that  she  took 
to  resist  the  chill  air  of  March.  There  was  a 
fever  in  her  veins  which  was  heightened  by  ex- 
citement and  suspense. 

Mrs.  Compton  was  in  her  room  during  the 
evvning.  Beatrice  said  but  little.  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton talked  drearily  about  the  few  topics  on  which 
she  generally  sjioke.  She  never  dared  talk  about 
the  affairs  of  the  house. 

Beatrice  was  not  impatient,  for  she  had  no 
idea  of  trying  to  escape  before  midnight.  She 
sat  silently  while  Mrs.  lompton  talked  or  prosed, 
absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts  and  plans.  The 
iiours  seemed  to  her  interminable.  Slowly  and 
heavily  they  dragged  on.  Beatrice's  suspense 
and  excitement  grew  stronger  every  moment, 
yet  by  a  violent  effort  she  preserved  so  perfect 

I  an  outward  calm  that  a  closer  observer  than  Mrs. 

I  Compton  would  have  failed  to  detect  any  emo- 

i  tion. 

At  last,  about  ten  o'clock,  Mi-s.  Compton  re- 
tired, with  many  kind  wishes  to  Beatrice,  ami 
many  anxious  counsels  as  to  her  healtli.  Bea- 
trice listened  patiently,  and  made  some  geneml 
remarks,  after  which  Mrs.  Compton  withdrew. 

She  was  now  left  to"  herself,  and  two  hours 
still  remained  before  she  could  dare  to  venture. 
She  paced  the  room  fretfully  and  anxiously,  won- 
dering why  it  was  that  the  time  seemed  so  long, 
and  looking  from  time  to  time  at  her  watch  in 
the  hope  of  finding  that  half  an  hour  had  passed, 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


181 


but  seeing  to  her  disappointment  ttiat  onlj  two 
or  tliree  minutes  had  gone. 

At  last  eleven  o'cluck  came.  She  stole  out 
quietly  into  the  hall  and  went  to  the  top  of  the 
grand  stairway.     There  she  stood  and  listened. 

The  sound  of  voices  came  up  from  the  dining- 
room,  which  was  near  the  hall-door.  IShe  knew 
to  whom  those  voices  l)elonged.  Evidently  it 
wns  not  yet  the  time  for  her  venture. 

i^iie  went  back,  controlling  her  excitement  as 
!)Mt  she  might.  At  hist,  after  a  long,  long  sus- 
pense, midnight  sounded. 

Again  she  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairway. 
The  voices  were  still  heard.  They  kept  late 
iiouis  down  there.  Could  she  try  now,  while 
they  were  still  up?     Not  yet. 

Not  yet.  The  suspense  became  agonizing. 
How  could  she  wait?  But  she  went  back  again 
to  her  room,  and  smothered  her  feelings  until  one 
o'clock  came. 

Again  she  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairway. 
She  heard  nothing.  She  could  see  a  light  stream- 
ing from  the  door  of  the  dining -hall  below. 
Lights,  also,  were  burning  in  the  hall  itself;  but 
she  heard  no  voices. 

Softl}'  and  quietly  she  went  down  stairs.  The 
lights  flashed  out  through  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room  into  the  hall ;  and  as  she  arrived  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  she  heard  subdued  voices  in  conver- 
fation.  Her  heart  beat  faster.  They  were  all 
rhere !  What  if  they  now  discovered  her !  What 
in3icy  would  they  show  her,  even  if  they  were 
ciipable  of  mercy  ? 

Fear  lent  wings  to  her  feet.  She  was  almost 
iif.aid  to  breathe  for  fear  that  they  might  hear 
liar.  She  stole  on  quietly  and  noiselessly  up  the 
jtnssage  that  led  to  the  north  end,  and  at  lost 
leached  it. 

All  was  dark  there.  At  this  end  there  was  a 
door.  On  each  side  was  a  kind  of  recess  formed 
by  the  pillars  of  the  doorway.  The  door  was 
generally  used  by  the  servants,  and  also  by  the 
inmates  of  the  house  for  convenience. 

The  key  was  in  it.  There  was  no  light  in  the 
immediate  vicinity.  Around  it  all  was  gloom. 
Near  by  was  a  stairway,  which  led  to  the  serv- 
ants' hall. 

She  took  the  key  in  her  hands,  which  trembled 
violently  with  excitement,  and  turned  it  in  the 
lock. 

Scarcely  had  she  done  so  when  she  heard  foot- 
steps and  voices  behind  her.  She  looked  hastily 
back,  and,  to  her  horror,  saw  two  servants  ajj- 
proaching  with  a  lamp.  It  was  impossible  for 
her  now  to  open  the  door  and  go  out.  Conceal- 
ment was  her  only  plan. 

But  how  ?  Tliere  was  no  time  for  hesitation. 
Without  stopping  to  think  she  slipped  into  one 
of  the  niches  formed  by  the  projecting  pillars, 
and  gathered  her  skirts  close  about  her  so  as  to 
be  as  little  conspicuous  as  possible.  There  she 
stood  awaiting  the  result.  She  half  wished  that 
she  had  turned  back.  For  if  she  were  now  dis- 
covered in  evident  concealment  what  excuse 
could  she  give?  She  could  not  hope  to  bril)e 
them,  for  she  had  no  money.  And,  what  was 
worst,  these  servants  '.vcre  the  two  who  had  been 
the  most  insolent  to  her  from  the  first. 

She  could  do  nothing,  therefore,  but  wait. 
They  jame  nearer,  and  at  last  reached  the  door. 
"  Hallo !"  said  one,  as  he  turned  the  key. 
"  It's  been  unlocked  I" 


"  It  hain't  beet,  locked  yet,"  said  the  other. 

"Yes,  it  has.  I  locked  it  myself,  an  hour 
ago.     Who  coidd  have  been  here  ?" 

"Any  one,"  said  the  other,  quietly.  "Our 
blessed  young  master  has,  no  doubt,  been  out 
this  way." 

"No,  he  hasn't.  He  hasn't  stinied  from  his 
whisky  since  eight  o'clock." 

"Nonsense!  You're  making  a  fuss  about 
nothing.     Lock  the  door  and  come  along. " 

"Any  how,  I'm  responsible,  and  I'll  get  a 
precious  overhauling  if  this  thing  goes  on.  I'll 
take  the  key  with  me  this  time." 

And  saying  this,  the  man  locked  the  door  and 
took  out  the  key.  Both  of  them  then  descended 
to  the  servants'  hall. 

The  noise  of  that  key  as  it  grated  in  the  lock 
sent  a  thrill  through  the  heart  of  the  trembling 
listener.  It  seemed  to  take  all  hope  from  her. 
The  servants  departed.  She  had  not  been  dis- 
covered. But  what  was  to  be  done  ?  She  had 
not  been  prepared  for  this. 

She  stood  for  some  time  in  despair.  She 
thought  of  other  ways  of  escape.  There  was 
the  haU-door,  which  she  did  not  dare  to  try,  for 
she  would  have  to  pass  directly  in  front  of  the 
dining-room.  Then  there  was  the  south  door 
at  the  other  end  of  the  building,  w  Inch  was  sel- 
dom used.  She  knew  of  no  others.  She  de- 
termined to  try  the  south  door. 

Quietly  and  swiftly  she  stole  away,  and  glided, 
like  a  ghost,  along  the  entire  length  of  the  build- 
ing. It  was  quite  dark  at  the  sou^h  end  as  it 
had  been  at  the  north.  She  reached  the  door 
without  accident. 

There  was  no  key  in  it.  It  was  locked.  Es- 
cape by  that  way  was  impossible. 

She  stood  despairing.  Only  one  way  was  now 
left,  and  that  lay  through  the  hall-door  itself. 

Suddenly,  as  she  stood  there,  she  heard  foot- 
steps. A  figure  came  down  the  long  hall  straiglit 
toward  her.  There  was  not  the  slightest  chauce 
of  concealment  here.  There  were  no  pillars  la- 
hind  which  she  might  crouch.  She  must  stand, 
then,  and  take  the  consequences.  Or,  rather, 
would  it  not  be  better  to  walk  forward  and  meet 
this  new-comer  ?  Yes ;  that  would  be  best.  She 
determined  to  do  so. 

So,  with  a  quiet,  slow  step  she  walked  back 
through  the  long  corridor.  About  half-way  she 
met  the  other.     He  stopped  and  started  back. 

"Miss  Potts!"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Philips. 

"  Ah,  Philips,"  said  she,  quietly,  "  I  am  walk- 
ing about  for  exercise  and  amusement.  I  can 
not  sleep.     Don't  be  startled.     It's  only  me." 

Philips  stood  like  one  paralyzed. 

"Don't  be  cast  down,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a 
trembling  voice.  "You  have  friends,  poneii""l 
fi  lends.     They  will  save  you. " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Beatrice,  in 
wonder. 

' '  Never  mind, "  said  Philips,  mysteriously.    "  It 

will  be  all  right.     I  dare  not  tell.     But  cheer  up." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  friends  ?" 

"  You  have  friends  who  are  more  powerful  than 

your  enemies,  that's  all,"  said  Philips,  hurriedly. 

"Cheer  up." 

Beatrice  wondered.  A  vague  thought  of  Bran- 
don came  over  her  mind,  but  she  dismissed  it  at 
once.  Yet  the  thought  gave  her  a  delicious  joy. 
and  at  once  dispelled  the  extreme  agitation  which 


182 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


had  thus  far  disturbetl  her.  Could  Philips  be  con- 
nected with  him  Y  Was  he  in  reality  considerate 
about  her  while  ohiiping  the  course  of  his  gloomy 
vengeanc-e?  'ihe«^  weie  the  thoughts  which 
Hashed  across  her  mind  as  she  stood. 

"  I  don  t  undeiwtand, "  Miid  she,  ut  last ;  "  but 
I  hope  it  mny  be  as  you  i&y.  God  knows,  I 
need  friends!' 

the  walked  nwny,  and  Philips  also  went  on- 
ward. She  walked  slowly,  until  at  lust  his  steps 
died  out  in  the  distance.  Then  a  door  banged. 
Kvidently  she  had  nothing  to  fear  from  him.  At 
last  she  reached  the  main  hall,  nnd  stopped  for 
ft  moment.  The  lights  from  the  dining-room 
were  still  flashing  out  through  the  door.  'Ihe 
grand  entrance  lay  Imfore  her.  There  was  the 
door  of  the  hall,  tiic  only  way  of  escape  that  now 
remained.     Dare  she  try  it  / 

She  deliberated  lung.  Two  alternatives  lay 
before  her — to  go  back  to  her  own  room,  or  to 
tiy  to  pass  that  door.  I'o  go  back  was  as  re- 
jiulsive  as  death,  in  fact  more  so.  If  the  choice 
liml  been  placed  full  liefore  her  then,  to  die  on  the 
Bjjot  or  to  go  back  to  her  room,  she  would  have 
deliberately  chosen  death.  'I'he  thought  of  re- 
turning, therefore,  was  the  lust  upon  which  she 
could  dwell,  and  ihut  of  going  fonvard  was  the 
only  one  left.     '1  o  this  she  gave  her  attention. 

At  la.«t  she  made  up  her  mind,  and  advanood 
cautiously,  close  by  the  wall,  toward  the  hall- 
door.  After  a  time  she  reached  the  door  of  the 
dining-room.  Could  she  venture  to  pass  it,  and 
how?  t- he  paused,  f^he listened.  There  were 
low  voices  in  the  room.  Then  they  were  still 
awake,  still  able  to  detect  her  if  she  passed  the 
door. 

She  looked  all  around.  The  hall  was  wide. 
On  the  opjKJsite  cide  the  wall  was  but  feebly 
lighted.  The  hall  lights  had  been  put  out,  and 
those  which  shone  from  the  room  extended  for- 
ward but  a  short  distance.  It  was  ju.st  jjossible 
therefore  to  es<ni.c  observation  by  crossing  the 
t'oorwa}  along  ino  wall  that  was  most  distant 
f^'om  it. 

Yet  before  she  tried  this  she  ventured  to  put 
forward  her  head  so  as  to  peep  into  the  room. 
!•  he  stooped  low  and  looked  cautiously  and  slow- 
ly. 

The  three  were  there  at  the  farthest  end  of 
the  room.  Bottles  and  glasses  stood  before  them, 
and  they  were  conversing  in  low  tones.  Those 
tones,  however,  were  not  so  low  but  that  they 
reached  her  curs.    They  were  sjieaking  about  her. 

"How  could  she  have  found  it  out?''  said 
Clark. 

"Mrs.  Compton  only  knows  one  thing,"  said 
Potts,  "and  that  is  the  secret  about  her.  She 
knows  nothing  more.    How  could  she  ?  ' 

"Then  how  could  that  cursed  girl  have  found 
out  about  the  Thug  business  ?"  exclaimed  John. 

There  was  no  rei)Iy. 

"She's  a  deep  one,"  said  John,  "d — d  deep 
— deeper  than  1  ever  thought.  I  always  said  she 
was  plucky — cursed  plucky — but  now  I  see  she's 
deep  too — and  I  begin  to  have  my  doubts  about 
the  way  she  ought  to  be  took  down." 

"I  never  could  make  her  f)ut,"  said  Potts. 
"And  now  I  don't  even  begin  i  understand  how 
she  could  know  that  which  only  we  have  known. 
Do  you  think,  Clark,  that  the  devil  could  have 
told  her  of  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Clark.    "  Nobody  but  the  devil 


could  have  told  her  that,  and  my  belief  i.s  that 
she's  the  devil  bin  ^''f.  She's  the  only  person  1 
ever  felt  afraid  of.  ^  — n  it,  I  can't  look  her  in 
the  face." 

Beatrice  retreate<l  and  passed  across  to  the 
opposite  wall.  She  did  not  wish  to  see  or  hear 
more.  She  glided  by.  •'"he  was  not  noticed. 
She  heard  John's  voice — sharj)  and  clear — 

"  We'll  have  to  begin  to-morrow  nnd  take  her 
down — that's  a  fact."  'lliis  was  followed  by 
silence. 

Beatrice  reached  the  door.  She  turned  the 
knob.     Oh,  joy !  it  was  not  locked.     It  opened. 

Noiselessly  she  ])a88ed  through ;  noiselessly  she 
shut  it  behind  her.  ^  he  was  outside.  She  wns 
free. 

The  moon  shone  brightly.  It  illumined  the 
lawn  in  front  and  the  tojis  of  the  clumjis  of  trees 
whose  dark  foliage  rose  before  her.  >he  saw  all 
this ;  yet,  in  her  eagerness  to  escape,  she  saw 
nothing  more,  but  sped  away  swiftly  down  the 
steps,  across  the  lawn,  and  under  the  shade  of 
the  trees. 

Which  way  shoidd  she  go?  There  was  the 
main  avenue  which  led  in  a  winding  direction 
toward  the  gate  and  the  porter's  lodge.  There 
was  also  another  path  which  the  servants  gener- 
ally took.  This  led  to  the  gate  also.  Beatrice 
thought  that  by  going  down  this  path  she  might 
come  near  the  gate  and  then  turn  otl°  to  the  wall 
and  try  and  climb  over. 

A  few  moments  of  thought  were  sufficient  for 
her  decision.  She  took  the  path  and  went  hur- 
riedly along,  keeping  on  the  side  where  the 
shadow  was  thickest. 

She  walked  swiftly,  until  at  length  she  came 
to  a  place  where  the  path  ended.  It  was  close 
by  the  porters  lodge.  Hero  she  paused  to  con- 
sider. 

Late  as  it  was  there  were  lights  in  the  lodge 
and  voices  at  the  door.  Some  one  was  talking 
with  the  porter.  Suddenly  the  voices  ceased  and 
a  man  came  walking  toward  the  place  where  she 
stood. 

To  dart  into  the  thick  trees  where  the  shadow 
lay  deepest  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  She 
stood  and  watched.  But  the  underbrush  was 
dense,  and  the  crackling  which  she  made  attract- 
ed the  man's  attention.  He  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  rushed  straight  toward  the  place 
where  she  was. 

Beatrice  gave  herself  up  for  lost.  She  rushed 
on  wildly,  not  knowing  where  she  went.  Behind 
her  was  the  sound  of  her  pursuer.  He  followed 
resolutely  and  relentlessly.  There  was  no  refuge 
for  her  but  continued  flight. 

Onward  she  sped,  and  still  onward,  through  the 
dense  underbrush,  which  at  every  step  gave  no- 
tice of  the  direction  w  Inch  she  had  taken.  Per- 
haps if  she  had  been  wiser  she  would  have 
plunged  into  some  thick  growth  of  trees  into 
the  midst  of  absolute  darkness  and  there  re- 
mained still.  As  it  was  she  did  not  think  of 
this.  Escape  was  her  only  thought,  and  the  only 
way  to  this  seemed  to  be  by  flight. 

So  she  fled ;  and  after  her  came  her  remorse- 
less, her  unpitying  pursuer.  Fear  lent  wings  to 
her  feet.  She  fled  on  through  the  underbrush 
that  crackled  as  she  passed  and  gave  notice  of 
her  track  through  the  dark,  dense  groves;  yet 
still  amidst  darkness  and  gloom  her  uursuer  fol- 
lowed. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


1S8 


ONWAKD   SHE   SPED,   AND   STILL   OXWAKD,   THROUGH   THE    ULXSE    UNDERBRLSH. 


At  last,  through  utter  weakness  and  weari- 
ness, she  sank  down.  Despair  came  over  her. 
She  could  do  no  more. 

The  pursuer  came  up.  So  dense  was  the  gloom 
in  that  thick  grove  that  for  some  time  he  could 
not  find  her.  Beatrice  heard  the  crackling  of 
the  underbrush  all  around.  He  was  searching 
for  her. 

She  crouche<l  down  low  and  scarcely  dared  to 
breathe.  She  took  refuge  in  the  deep  darkness, 
and  determined  to  wait  till  her  pursuer  might 
give  up  his  search.     At  last  all  was  still. 

Beatrice  thought  tliat  he  had  gone.  Yet  in 
her  fear  she  waited  for  what  seemed  to  her  an 
interminable  period.  At  last  she  ventured  to 
make  a  movement.  Slowly  and  cautiously  she 
rose  to  her  feet  and  advanced.      She  did  not 


know  what  direction  to  take ;  but  she  walked 
on,  not  caring  where  she  went  so  long  as  she 
could  escape  pursuit. 

Scarcely  had  she  taken  twenty  steps  when  she 
heard  a  noise.  Some  one  was  moving.  She  stood 
still,  breathless.  Then  she  thought  she  had  been 
mistaken.  After  waiting  a  long  time  she  went 
on  as  before.  She  walked  faster.  The  noise 
came  again.  It  was  clo^e  by.  She  stood  still 
for  m.iny  minutes. 

Suddenly  she  bounded  up.  and  ran  as'one  runs 
for  life.  Her  long  rest  had  refreshed  her.  De- 
spair gave  her  strength.  But  the  jmrsuer  was 
on  her  track.  Swiftly,  and  still  more  swiftly,  ills 
footsteps  came  up  behind  her.  He  was  gaining 
on  her.     Still  she  rushed  on. 

At  last  a  strong  hand  seized  her  by  the  shoul« 


f34 


COKD  AND  CKEESK. 


dcr,  and  iiho  oank  down  upon  the  mou  that  l&y 
under  the  toreitt  treen. 

"  VVhd  are  you  ?"  cried  a  familiar  voice. 

"  V'ijal !"  criod  Beatrice. 

The  other  let  go  his  hold. 

"  Will  you  betray  me  ?"  cried  Beatrice,  in  a 
mounifiil  and  dcsj)airing  voices. 

Vijal  waa  silent. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"wiid  lie,  at  last.  •'What- 
ever you  want  to  do  I  will  hel|>  you.  I  will  be 
your  slave." 

"  I  wish  to  escape." 

"Come  then — you  shall  escape,"  said  Vijal. 

Without  uttering  another  word  iic  walked  on 
and  Beatrice  followed.  Hope  rose  once  more 
within  her.  Hope  gave  strength.  Despair  and 
its  weakness  had  left  her.  After  nlM)ut  half  an 
hour's  walk  they  reached  the  park  wall. 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  j)oacher,"  said  Vijal,  sad- 
ly; "jet  I  am  glad  it  was  you,  for  I  can  help 
yon.     I  will  help  you  over  the  wall."' 

He  raised  her  up.  She  clambered  to  the  top, 
where  she  rested  for  a  moment. 

"God  bless  you,  Vijal,  and  good-by!"  said 
she. 

Vijal  said  nothing. 

The  next  moment  she  was  on  the  other  side. 
The  road  lay  there.  It  nm  north  away  from  the 
village.    Along  this  road  lieatrice  wjdked  swiftly. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
"picked   up  aurift." 

Ov  the  morning  following  two  travelers  left  a 
small  inn  which  lay  on  the  road-side,  about  ten 
miles  north  of  Brandon.  It  waj  about  eight 
o'clock  when  they  took  their  departure,  driving 
in  their  own  caniage  at  a  moderate  pace  along 
the  road. 

"Look,  Langhetti,"  said  the  one  who  was 
driving,  pointing  with  his  whip  to  an  object  in 
the  road  directly  in  front  of  them. 

Langhetti  raised  his  head,  which  had  befen 
bowed  down  in  deep  abstraction,  to  look  in  the 
direction  indicated.  A  figure  was  approaching 
them.  It  looked  like  a  woman,  i^he  walked 
very  t-lowly,  and  apjjeared  rather  to  stagger  than 
to  walk. 

"t^he  appears  to  be  dnmk,  Despard,"  said 
Langhetti.  "Poor  wretch,  and  on  this  bleak 
March  morning  too  I  Let  us  stop  and  see  if  we 
can  do  any  tiling  for  her." 

They  drove  on,  and  as  they  met  the  woman 
Despard  stopped. 

She  was  young  and  extraordinarily  beautiful. 
Her  ftice  was  thin  and  white.  Her  clothing  was 
of  fine  materials  but  scanty  and  torn  to  shreds. 
As  they  stopjjed  she  turned  her  large  eyes  np 
despairingly  and  stood  still,  with  a  face  which 
seemed  to  exi)ress  every  conceival  le  emotion  of 
anguish  and  of  hope.  Yet  as  her  eyes  rested  on 
Langhetti  a  change  came  over  her.  The  deep 
and  unutterable  sadness  of  her  face  passed  away, 
and  was  succeedeu  by  a  radiant  Hash  of  joy.  She 
threw  out  her  arms  toward  him  with  a  cry  of 
wild  entre:ity. 

The  moment  that  Langhetti  saw  her  he  started 
np  and  stood  for  an  instant  as  if  paralyzed.  Her 
cry  came  to  his  ea"s.  He  leaped  from  the  car- 
riage towHvd  her,  and  caughl  her  in  his  anns. 


"  Oh,  Bice !  Alas,  my  Bicina !"  he  cried,  and 
a  thousand  fond  words  came  to  his  lips. 

Beatrice  l(H>kcd  up  with  eyes  (illetl  with  grate- 
ful tears ;  her  lips  murmured  some  Inuudiblo  .'..-^n- 
tencus  ;  and  then,  in  this  full  a.>u*nrancc  of  safetv, 
the  rcs<iliiii(>n  that  had  sustained  her  so  long 
gave  way  altogether.  Her  eyes  closed,  she  gave 
a  low  moitn,  and  sank  senseless  upon  his  hreasr. 

langhetti  supported  her  for  a  moment,  llieu 
gently  laid  her  down  to  try  and  restore  her.  He 
chafed  her  hands,  and  did  all  that  is  usually  done 
in  such  emergencies.  But  here  the  case  was  dif- 
ferent— it  was  more  than  a  common  faint,  and 
the  animation  now  susfiended  was  not  to  bo  re- 
stored by  ortlinary  cfl'orfs. 

Langhetti  bowed  over  her  as  he  chafed  her 
hands.  "Ah,  my  Bicina,"  he  cried;  "is  it 
thus  I  find  you!  Ah,  ])oor  thin  hand!  Alas, 
white  wan  face !  What  sufl'ei  inj;  has  been  yours, 
pure  angel,  among  those  fiends  of  hell !" 

He  paused,  and  turned  a  face  of  agony  toward 
Despard.  But  as  he  looked  at  him  he  saw  a 
grief  in  his  countenance  that  was  only  sect)nd  to 
his  own.  Something  in  Beatrice's  ap]iearancc 
had  stnuk  him  with  a  decjier  feeling  than  that 
merely  human  interest  which  the  generous  heart 
feels  in  the  suflerings  of  others. 

"Langhetti,'"  ."aid  he,  "let  ns  not  leave  this 
sweet  angel  exi)Oi^eil  to  this  bleak  wind.  We 
must  take  her  back  to  the  inn.  We  have  gained 
our  oliject.  Alas!  the  gain  is  worse  than  a  fail- 
ure. " 

"What  can  we  do?" 

"Let  us  put  her  in  the  carriage  between  us, 
and  drive  back  instantly." 

Despard  stoojied  as  he  spoke,  raised  her  rev- 
erently in  his  arms,  and  lifted  her  upon  the  seat. 
He  sprang  in  and  i)ut  his  arms  around  her  sense- 
less form,  so  as  to  support  her  against  himself. 
Langhetti  looked  on  with  eyes  that  were  moist 
with  a  sad  yet  mysterious  feeling. 

Then  he  resumed  his  place  in  the  carriage. 

"Oh,  Langhetti!"  said  Despard,  "what  is  it 
that  I  xiiw  in  the  face  of  this  jioor  duld  that  so 
wrings  my  heart  ':*  What  is  this  mystery  of  yours 
that  you  "will  not  tell ?'. 

"1  can  not  solve  it,"  said  Langhetti,  "and 
therefore  I  will  not  tell  it." 

"Tell  it,  whatever  it  is." 

">'(),  it  is  only  conjecture  as  yet,  and  I  \\i\\ 
not  utter  it." 

"  And  it  affects  me?" 

"Dceplv." 

"Therefore  tell  it." 

"Therefore  1  must  not  tell  it;  for  if  it  prove 
baseless  1  shall  only  excite  your  feeling  i:i  vain." 

"At  any  late  let  me  know.  For  1  have  the 
wildest  fancies,  and  I  wish  to  know  if  it  is  possi- 
ble that  they  are  like  your  own." 

"  No,  Despard,"  said  Langhetti.  "  Xot  now. 
The  time  may  come,  but  it  has  not  yet." 

lieatrice's  head  leaned  against  Despard"s  shoul- 
der as  she  reclined  against  him,  sustained  by  his 
arm.  Her  face  was  upturned ;  a  face  as  white 
as  marble,  her  pure  Grecian  features  showing 
now  their  faultless  lines  like  the  sculptured  fate 
of  some  goddess.  Her  beauty  was  jierfect  in  its 
classic  outline.  But  her  eyes  were  closed,  and 
her  wan,  white  lips  parted ;  and  there  was  sor- 
row on  her  face  which  did  not  seem  approjiriate 
to  one  so  young. 

"Look,  '  said  Langhetti,  in  a  inoumful  voice. 


COHD  AN'D  CREE-iE. 


'li:;    LKAl-liD   FKOM   THE   CAKKIAGE   TOWAKU   HER,   AND   CAUGHT   HER   IN   HIS   ARMS." 


"Faw  you  ever  in  nil  your  life  .nny  one  so  per- 
fectly nnJ  so  faultlessly  beautiful?  Oh,  if  you 
could  but  have  seen  her,  as  I  have  done,  in  her 
moods  of  inspiration,  when  she  sang !  Could  I 
ever  have  imagined  such  a  fate  as  tliis  for  her?" 

"Oh,  Despard!"  he  continued,  after  a  pause 
in  which  the  other  had  turned  his  stern  face  to 
him  witliout  a  word — "Oh.  Despard!  you  ask 
me  to  tell  yo:i  this  secret.  I  dare  not.  It  is  so 
wide-spread.  If  my  fancy  he  true,  then  nil  your 
life  must  at  once  be  unsettled,  and  all  your  soul 
turned  to  one  dark  purpose.  Never  will  I  turn 
you  to  that  purpose  till  I  know  the  truth  beyond 
the  possibility  of  a  doubt." 

"I  saw  that  in  her  face,"  said  Despard, 
"  which  I  hardly  dare  acknowledge  to  myself." 


"  Do  not  acknowledge  it,  then,  I  implore  you. 
Forget  it.  Do  not  open  up  once  more  that  old 
and  now  almost  forgotten  sorrow.  Think  nos 
of  it  even  to  yourself." 

Langhetti  spoke  with  a  wild  and  vehement 
urgency  which  was  wonderful. 

"Do  yon  not  see,"  said  Despard,  "that  you 
rouse  my  curiosity  to  an  intolerable  degree  ?" 

"Be  it  so;  at  any  rate  it  is  better  to  suffer 
froi.i  curiosity  than  to  feel  what  you  must  feel  if 
I  told  you  what  I  suspect." 

Had  it  been  any  other  man  than  Langhetti 
Despard  would  have  been  offended.  As  it  was 
he  said  nothing,  but  began  to  conjecture  as  to  the 
best  course  for  them  to  follow. 

"It  is  evident."  said  he  to  Langhetti,  "thX 


IM 


rOKD  ASD  CREE-^E. 


■hfl  hu  eacap«d  from  Brandon  Hull  during  tho 
paat   night.     Mie  will,   no  duubt,   be  purtued.  | 
What  «hnll  wo  do?    If  we  go  back  tu  thi*  inn  ' 
they  will  wonder  nt  our  bringing  her.     There  i» 
another  inn  u  mile  further  on." 

"  I  have  liven  thinking  of  that,"  replied  I^n- 
glietti.  "  It  will  l>e  Itettcr  to  go  to  the  other  inn. 
liut  what  Hhttll  wo  Miy  ubout  her?  Let  ua  i^ay 
■he  U  an  invalid  going  home.' 

"And  am  1  her  medical  attendant?'  aake<l 
Deapard. 

'*  No ;  that  is  not  necesaary.  You  aVe  her 
guardian — the  Rector  of  Holby,  of  courae — your 
name  is  aufflcient  guarantee.'' 

"Oh,"  aaid  Despard,  at\er  n  piiuae,  *'  I'll  tell 
you  aometliing  Itettcr  yet.  1  iim  her  brother  and 
■he  in  my  aiater — .Miaa  UeaparU.  " 

Aa  he  apoke  he  looked  down  upon  her  mnrble 
face.  He  did  not  ace  I^nghetli'a  countcnuiu'e. 
Ilud  he  done  ho  he  would  have  wondered.  For 
Langhetti'a  eyea  aeemed  to  seek  to  pierce  the  very 
eonl  of  Despard.  Ilia  face  became  transformed. 
Ita  uaunl  aerenity  vaniahed,  and  there  wna  eager 
wonder,  intcnae  and  anxioua  curioaity — an  en- 
deavor to  aee  if  there  was  not  aome  deep 
meaning  underlying  Deapard  a  worda.  But  Dea- 
])ard  showed  no  emotion,  lie  wim  conscioua  of 
no  deep  meaning.  He  merely  murmured  to  him- 
aelf  na  he  looked  dow!'  upon  the  uncouacious 
face: 

"  My  aick  sister — my  sister  Beatrice." 

Langhetti  aaid  not  a  word,  hut  sat  in  silence, 
absorbed  in  one  intense  and  wondering  gaze. 
Despard  aeemed  to  dwell  upon  this  idea,  fondly 
and  tenderly. 

"  hhe  is  not  one  of  that  brood,"  said  he,  after 
a  pause.  "It  is  in  name  only  that  she  belongs 
to  tliem." 

"  Tliey  are  fiends  and  she  ia  an  angel,"  aaid 
Langhetti. 

' '  ileaven  has  sent  her  to  us ;  we  must  presene 
her  forever." 

"If  she  lives,"  said  Langhetti,  "she  must 
never  go  back." 

"  Go  back !"  cried  Despard.  "  Better  far  for 
ber  to  die." 

"  I  myself  would  die  rather  than  give  her  up." 

"And  I,  too.  But  we  will  not.  I  will  adopt 
her.  Yes,  she  shall  cast  away  the  link  that  binds 
her  to  these  accursed  ones — her  vile  name.  I 
will  adopt  her.  She  shall  have  my  name — she 
shall  be  ray  sister.  She  shall  be  Beatrice  Des- 
pard. 

"And  surely,"  continued  Despard,  looking 
tenderly  down,  "surely,  of  all  the  Despard  race 
the-e  was  never  one  so  beautiful  and  so  pure  as 
she." 

Langhetti  did  not  say  a  word,  but  looked  at  Des- 
pard and  the  one  whom  he  thus  called  his  adopt- 
ed sister  witli  in  emotion  which  he  could  not 
control.  Tears  started  to  his  eyes ;  yet  over  his 
brow  there  came  something  which  is  not  gen- 
ierally  associated  with  tears — a  lofty,  exultant 
expression,  an  air  of  joy  and  peace. 

"  Your  sister, "said  Despard,  "shall  nurse  her 
back  to  health.  She  will  do  so  for  your  sake, 
Langhetti — or  rather  from  her  own  noble  and 
generous  instincts.  In  Thornton  Grange  she 
will,  perhaps,  find  some  alleviation  for  the  sor- 
rows which  she  may  have  endured.  Our  care 
■hall  he  around  her,  and  we  can  all  labor  togeth- 
er for  bar  future  welfare. " 


They  at  length  reached  the  inn  of  which  they 
had  apoken,  and  Iksatrice  was  tenderly  lifted  out 
and  carried  up  atain.  She  was  mentioned  as 
the  siator  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Despard,  of  Holby, 
who  wua  bringing  her  back  from  the  sea-aide, 
whither  aliu  had  gone  for  her  health.  I'nfortu- 
iiutely,  alio  had  licen  too  weak  for  tho  journey. 

Tho  people  of  the  inn  ohowed  tho  kindent  at- 
tention and  wanneat  aymputhy.  A  doctor  wua 
aent  for,  who  hved  at  a  village  two  miles  liuther 
on. 

Beatrice  recovered  from  her  taint,  bat  remained 
unconacioua.  The  doctor  conaidered  that  her 
brain  was  atTectetl.  He  shook  hia  head  solemnly 
over  it,  aa  doctora  always  do  when  they  have 
nothing  in  itarticular  to  aay.  Both  Langhetti 
and  Deapard  knew  more  about  her  case  than  he 
did. 

They  sow  that  rest  wasr  the  one  thing  needed. 
But  reat  could  l>e  better  attained  in  Hulliy  than 
here ;  and  l>eaidea,  there  waa  the  danger  of  pur- 
suit. It  was  necessary  to  remove  her;  and  that, 
too,  without  delay.  A  close  carriage  was  pro- 
cured without  much  ditUculty,  and  the  patient 
wua  deposited  therein. 

A  slow  journev  brought  them  by  easy  stages 
to  Holby.  Beatrice  remained  unconacioua.  A 
nurse  waa  procured,  who  traveled  with  her.  The 
condition  of  Beatrice  waa  the  same  which  ahe  de- 
scribed in  her  diary.  Great  grief  and  extraordi* 
nary  sufl'oring  and  excitement  had  overtuiiked 
the  brain,  and  it  had  given  way.  So  Deapuid 
and  Langhetti  conjectured. 

At  last  they  reached  Holby.  They  drove  nt 
once  to  Thornton  Grange. 

"What  is  this  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Thornton,  who  had 
heard  nothing  from  them,  and  ran  out  upon  the 
pinzza  to  meet  them  as  alie  saw  them  coming. 

"I  have  found  Bice,"  said  Langhetti,  "and 
have  brought  her  here." 

"Where  is  she?" 

' '  There, "  said  I..anghetti.  ' '  I  give  her  to  your 
care — it  is  for  you  to  give  her  back  to  me." 


CHAFIEU  XXXIV. 


ON   THE   TRACK. 


Beatrice's  disappearance  was  known  at  Bran- 
don Hall  on  the  following  day.  Tho  servants 
first  made  the  discoverj'.  They  found  her  ab- 
sent from  her  room,  and  no  one  had  seen  her 
about  the  house.  It  was  an  unusual  thing  tor 
her  to  be  out  of  the  house  early  in  the  day,  and 
of  late  for  many  months  she  had  scarcely  ever 
left  her  i-oom,  so  that  now  her  absence  at  once 
excited  suspicion.  The  news  was  communicated 
from  one  to  another  among  the  servants.  Afraid 
of  Potts,  they  did  not  dare  to  tell  Iim,  but  first 
sought  to  find  her  by  themselves.  They  called 
Mrs.  Compton,  and  the  fear  which  peiT)etually 
possessed  the  mind  of  this  poor,  timid  creature 
now  rose  to  a  positive  frenzy  of  anxiety  and 
dread,  t^he  told  all  that  she  knew,  and  that  v.as 
that  she  had  seen  her  the  evening  before  as  usu- 
al, and  had  left  her  at  ten  o'clock. 

No  satisfaction  therefore  could  be  gained  from 
her.  The  sen-ants  tried  to  find  traces  of  her, 
but  were  unable.  At  length  toward  evening,  on 
Potts's  return  from  the  bank,  the  news  was  com- 
municated to  him. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


187 


The  niffe  of  I'ottii  nnod  not  Ite  detcrihod  here. 
Thttt  one  who  had  twite  defied  nhould  now  en- 
CM|>e  liiin  fliled  him  with  fury.  He  orKani/e<i  nil 
hiM  servant*  into  bnndii,  and  they  woiired  the 
grounds  till  durknc««  put  an  end  tu  these  ofiera- 
UonH. 

'Iliat  evening  I'ottH  nnd  hi«  two  romiHUiionit 
dined  in  ni<K)dy  mlence,  only  cunvertiing  l>y  HtM 
und  RtartK. 

"  I  don't  think  she'ii  killed  hernelf,"  Haid  Potts, 
in  reply  to  an  observation  of  Clark.  "  ^he's  got 
stuff  enough  in  her  to  do  it,  but  I  don't  lielieve 
she  has.  She's  playing  a  deeper  game.  I  only 
wiith  we  rould  flsh  up  her  dead  lM>dy  out  of  Hoino 
pond  ;  it  would  (juiet  matters  down  very  con.xid- 
erable. " 

"If  she's  got  off  she's  taken  with  her  some 
secrets  that  won't  do  us  any  good,"  rcmarke<l 
John. 

"The  devil  of  it  is,"  said  Potts,  "we  don't 
know  how  much  she  does  know.  She  must  know 
u  precious  lot,  or  she  never  would  have  dared  to 
say  ^'•hnt  she  did." 

' '  But  how  could  she  get  out  of  the  park  ?" 
said  Clark.  "That  wall  is  too  high  to  climb 
over,  and  the  gates  are  nil  locked." 

"It's  my  opinion,"  exclaimed  John,  "that 
ohris  in  the  grounds  yet." 

Potts  shook  hi.s  head. 

"After  what  she  told  mo  it's  my  belief  she 
can  do  any  thing.  Why,  didn't  she  tell  u»  of 
crimes  that  were  committed  liefore  she  was  bom ';' 
I  l)egin  to  feel  shaky,  and  it  is  the  girl  that  has 
made  me  so." 

Potts  rose  to  his  feet,  plunged  his  hands  deep 
into  his  pockets,  and  walked  up  and  down.  The 
others  sat  in  gloomy  silence. 

"  Could  that  Hong  Kong  nurse  of  hers  have 
told  her  any  thing?"  asked  Jolm. 

"  She  didn't  know  any  thing  to  tell." 

"  Mrs.  Compton  must  have  blown,  then." 

"Mrs.  Compton  didn't  know.  I  tell  you  that 
there  is  not  one  human  being  living  that  knows 
what  she  told  us  besides  ourselves  and  her.  How 
the  devil  she  picked  it  up  I  don't  know." 

"  I  didn't  like  the  cut  of  her  from  the  first," 
said  John.  "  She  had  a  way  of  looking  that  made 
me  feel  uneassy,  as  though  there  was  something  in 
her  that  would  some  day  be  dangerous.  I  didn't 
want  you  to  send  for  her. " 

"  Well,  the  mischiefs  done  now." 

"  Youre  not  going  to  give  up  the  search,  are 
you  ?"  asked  Clark. 

"Give  it  up!     Not  I." 

"We  must  get  her  back." 

"  Yes;  our  only  safety  now  is  in  cntching  her 
again  at  all  hazards. " 

There  wan  a  long  silence. 

"Twenty  years  ago,"  said  Potts,  moodily, 
"the  Vishnu  drifted  away,  and  since  the  time 
of  the  trial  no  one  has  mentioned  it  to  me  till 
that  girl  did." 

"And  she  is  only  twenty  years  old,"  rejoined 
John. 

"I  tell  yon,  lads,  you've  got  the  devil  to  do 
v\-ith  when  you  tackle  her,"  remarked  Clark; 
"but  if  she  is  the  devil  we  must  fight  it  out 
and  crush  her. " 

"Twenty-three  years. " continued  Potts,  in  the 

fame  gloomy  tone — "twenty-three  years  have 

passed  since  I  was  captured  with  my  followers. 

No  one  has  mentioned  that  since.     No  one  in  all 

I 


the  world  knows  that  I  am  the  only  Eiiglithman 
that  ever  joined  the  I'hiigi  except  \hn*  girl." 

"She  must  know  every  thing  that  -vo  have 
done,"  said  Clark. 

"Of  course  she  must." 

"Including  our  Brandon  enterprise,"  uid 
John. 

"  And  inci '  iding  your  penmanthlp, "  iaid  Clark ; 
"enough,  LiU.  to  stretch  «  neck." 

"Come,"  uid  Potu,  "don't  let  u$  talk  of 
this,  any  how." 

Again  they  relapsed  into  silence. 

"Well!"  exclaimed  John,  at  last,  "what  are 
yon  going  to  do  to-morrow  ?" 

"Chase  her  till  I  find  her," replied  PotU,M¥- 
ogely. 

"But  where?" 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  a  plan  which  seems  to 
me  to  lie  about  the  thing." 

"What?" 

"A  good  old  plan,"  said  Pottt.  "  Your  pup, 
Johnnie,  can  help  us." 

John  |>ounded  his  fist  on  the  table  with  savage 
exultation. 

".My  blood-hound!  Good,  eld  Dad,  what  a 
trump  vou  are  to  think  of  that !" 

"He  II  do  it!" 

"Yes,"  said  John,  "if  he  gets  on  her  track 
and  coines  up  with  her  I'm  a  little  afraid  that 
well  arrive  at  the  spot  just  too  late  to  save  her. 
It's  the  l)est  way  that  I  know  of  for  getting  rid 
of  the  difficulty  handsomely.  Of  course  we  are 
going  after  her  through  anxiety,  and  the  dog  is 
nn  innocent  pup  who  comes  with  us ;  and  if  any 
disaster  hap|)ens  ve  will  kill  him  on  the  spot." 

Potts  shook  his  head  moodily.  He  had  no  verv 
hopeful  feeling  aknit  this.  He  was  shaken  to  the 
soul  at  the  thought  of  this  stem,  relentless  girl 
earning  out  into  the  world  his  terrific  secret. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  they  resumed 
their  search  after  the  lost  girl.  This  time  the 
servants  were  not  employed,  but  the  three  them- 
selves went  forth  to  tiy  what  they  could  do. 
With  them  was  the  "  pujf)"  to  which  allusion  had 
been  made  on  the  previous  evening.  This  ani- 
mal was  a  huge  blood-hound,  which  John  had 
jitirchased  to  take  the  place  of  his  bull-dog,  and 
of  which  he  was  extravagantly  proud.  True  to 
his  instinct,  the  hound  underetood  from  smelling 
an  article  of  Beatrice's  apparel  what  it  was  that 
he  was  required  to  seek,  and  he  went  oft'  on  her 
trail  out  through  the  front  door,  down  the  steps, 
and  up  to  the  grove. 

The  others  followed  after.  The  dog  led  them 
down  the  path  toward  the  gate,  and  thence  into 
the  thick  grove  and  through  the  underbrush. 
Scraps  of  her  dress  still  clung  in  places  to  the 
brushwood.  The  dog  led  t'lem  round  and  round 
wherever  Beatrice  had  wandered  in  her  flight 
from  Vijal.  They  all  believed  that  they  would 
certainly  fint!  her  here,  and  that  she  had  lost  her 
way  or  at  lea'-f  tried  to  conceid  herself.  But  at 
last,  to  their  disappointment,  the  dog  turned 
away  out  of  the  wood  and  into  the  path  again. 
Then  he  led  them  along  through  the  woods  until 
he  reached  the  Park  wall.  Here  the  animal 
squatted  on  his  haunches,  and,  lifting  up  his 
head,  gave  a  long  deep  howl. 

"  What's  this?"  said  Potts. 

"Why,  don't  you  see?  She's  got  over  the 
wall  somehow.  All  that  we've  got  to  do  is  to 
put  the  dog  over,  and  follow  on." 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


ER   THE   WALL   SOMEHOW. 


The  others  at  once  understood  that  this  must 
be  the  case.  In  a  short  time  they  were  on  the 
other  side  of  the  wall,  where  the  dog  found  the 
trail  again,  and  led  on  while  they  followed  as 
before. 

They  did  n  *,  however,  wish  to  seem  like  pur- 
suers. That  would  hardly  be  the  tiling  in  a  coun- 
try of  law  and  order.  The2'  chose  to  walk  rather 
slowly,  and  John  held  the  dog  by  a  strap  which 
he  had  brought  with  him.  They  soon  found  the 
walk  much  longer  than  they  had  anticipated,  and 
began  to  regret  that  they  had  not  come  in  a  car- 
riage. They  had  gone  too  far,  however,  to  rem- 
edy this  now,  so  they  resolved  to  continue  on 
their  way  as  they  were. 

"Gad!"  said  John,  who  felt  fatigued  first, 
*'  what  a  walker  she  is !" 

"  She's  the  devil !"  growled  Clark,  savagely. 

At  last,  after  about  three  hours'  walk,  the  dog 
stopped  .'t  a  place  by  the  road-side,  and  snuffed 
in  all  dirc'^tions.  The  others  watched  him  anx- 
iously for  a  long  time.  The  dog  ran  all  around 
sniffing  at  the  ground,  but  to  no  purpose. 

He  had  lost  the  trail.  Again  and  again  he 
tried  to  recover  it.  But  his  blood-thirsty  instinct 
was  completely  at  fault.  The  trail  had  gone, 
and  at  last  the  animal  came  up  to  his  master  and 
crouched  down  at  bis  feet  with  a  low  moan. 


"  Sold !"  cried  John,  with  a  curse. 

' '  What  can  have  become  of  her  ?"  said  Potts. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  John.  "I  dare  say 
she's  got  took  up  in  some  wagon.  Yes,  tliat's 
it.     That's  the  reason  why  the  trail  has  gone." 

"What  shall  we  do  now?  We  can't  follow. 
It  may  have  been  the  coach,  and  she  may  have 
got  a  lift  to  the  nearest  railway  station." 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  we  can 
do.  Let  one  of  us  go  to  the  inns  that  are  near- 
est, and  ask  if  there  was  a  girl  in  the  coach  that 
looked  like  her,  or  make  any  inquiries  that  may 
be  needed.  We  could  find  out  that  much  at  any 
rate." 

The  others  assented.  John  swore  he  was  too 
tired.  At  length,  after  some  conversation,  they 
all  deteiTnined  to  go  on,  and  to  hire  a  carriage 
back.  Accordingly  on  they  went,  and  soon  reach- 
ed an  inn. 

Here  they  made  inquiries,  but  could  learn  no- 
thing whatever  about  any  giil  that  had  stopjied 
there.  Potts  then  hired  a  carriage  and  drove  off 
to  the  next  inn,  leaving  the  others  behind.  He 
returned  in  about  two  hours.  His  face  bore  an 
expression  of  deep  perplexity. 

"  Well,  what  huk,  dad'/"  asked  John. 

"  There's  the  devil  to  pay,"  growled  Potts. 

"Did  you  find  her?"  . 


CORD  AND  CREESE, 


189 


"There  is  a  girl  at  the  next  inn,  and  it's  her. 
Now  what  name  do  vou  think  they  call  her  by  ?"' 

"What?"  '         . 

"  Miss  Despard." 

Claric  turned  paie  and  looked  at  John,  who 
gave  a  long,  low  whistle. 

' '  Is  she  alone  ? '  asked  John. 

"  No — that's  the  worst  of  it.  A  reverend  gent 
is  with  her,  who  has  charge  of  her,  and  says  he 
is  her  brother. " 

"Who?" 

"  Ilis  name  is  Couitenay  Despard,  son  of  Col- 
onel Lionel  Despard,"  said  I'otts. 

The  others  returned  his  look  in  utter  bewil- 
derment. 

"  I've  been  thinking  and  thinking,"  said  Potts, 
"  but  I  haven't  got  to  the  bottom  of  it  yet.  We 
can't  do  any  thing  just  now,  that's  evident.  I 
found  out  that  this  reverend  gent  is  on  his  way 
to  Holby,  where  he  is  rector.  The  only  thing 
left  for  us  to  do  is  to  go  quietly  home  and  look 
about  us." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  like  the  begin- 
ning of  one  of  those  monsoon  storms,"  said  Clark, 
gloom  Uy. 

The  others  said  nothing.  In  a  short  time 
they  were  on  their  way  back,  moody  and  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 
Beatrice's  recovery. 

It  was  not  easy  for  the  overtasked  and  over- 
worn powers  of  Beatrice  to  rally.  Weeks  pass- 
ed before  she  opened  her  eyes  to  a  recognition 
of  the  world  around  her.  It  was  March  when 
she  sank  down  by  the  road-side.  It  was  June 
when  she  began  to  recover  from  the  shock  of 
the  terrible  excitement  through  which  she  had 
passed. 

Loving  hearts  sympathized  with  her,  tender 
hands  cared  for  her,  vigilant  eyes  watched  her, 
and  all  that  love  and  care  could  do  were  unre- 
mittingly exerted  for  her  benefit. 

As  iJeatiice  opened  her  eyes  after  her  long  un- 
consciousness she  looked  around  in  wonder,  rec- 
ognizing nothing.  Then  they  rested  in  equal 
wonder  upon  one  who  stood  by  her  bedside. 

She  was  slender  and  fragile  in  form,  with  del- 
icate features,  whose  fine  lines  seemed  rather  like 
ideal  beauty  than  real  life.  The  eyes  were  large, 
dark,  lustrous,  and  filled  w'tli  a  wonderful  but 
mournful  beauty.  Yet  a'i  the  features,  so  ex- 
quisite in  their  loveliness  were  transcended  by 
the  expression  that  dwelt  upon  them.  It  was 
pure,  it  was  spiritual,  it  was  holy.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  saint,  such  a  face  as  appears  to  the  rapt 
devotee  when  fasting  has  done  its  work,  and  the 
quickened  imagination  grasps  at  ideal  forms  till 
the  dwellers  in  heaven  seem  to  become  visible. 

In  her  confused  mind  Beatrice  at  first  had  a 
faint  fancy  that  she  was  in  another  state  of  exist- 
ence, and  that  the  form  before  Iier  was  one  of  those 
jmre  intelligences  who  had  been  appointed  to 
welcome  her  tliere.  Perhaps  there  was  some 
fnch  thought  visible  upon  her  face,  for  the  stran- 
ger came  up  to  her  noiselessly,  and  stooping 
do\vn,  kissed  her. 

"You  are  among  friends,"  said  she,  in  a  low, 
sweet  voice.     ' '  You  have  been  sick  long. " 

"AVhereamI?" 


"Among  loving  friends,'"  said  the  other,  " fiu 
away  from  the  place  where  you  suffered." 

Beatrice  sighed. 

"  I  hoped  that  I  had  passed  away  forever," 
she  murmured. 

"Not  yet,  not  yet,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a 
voice  of  tender  yet  mournful  sweetness,  which 
had  in  it  an  uiif<ithomable  depth  of  meaning. 
"  We  must  wait  on  here,  dear  friend,  till  it.  be 
His  will  to  call  us." 

"And  who  are  j-ou?"  asked  Beatrice,  after  a 
long  and  anxious  look  at  the  face  of  the  speaker. 

"  My  name  is  Edith  Brandon, "'  said  the  other, 
gently. 

"Brandon! — Edith  Brandon!"  cried  Bea- 
trice, with  a  vehemence  which  contrasted  strange- 
ly with  the  scarce-audible  words  with  which  she 
had  just  spoken. 

The  stranger  smiled  with  the  same  melancholy 
sweetness  which  she  had  shown  before. 

"Yes,"  said  she;  "but  do  not  agitate  your- 
self, dearest." 

"And  have  you  nursed  me?" 

"  Partly.  But  you  are  in  the  house  of  one  who 
is  like  an  angel  in  her  loving  care  of  you." 

"But  you — you?"  pereisted  Beatrice;  "you 
did  not  perish,  then,  as  they  said  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  stranger ;  "  it  was  not  per- 
mitted me." 

"Thank  God !"  murmured  Beatrice,  fenently. 
"//e  has  one  sorrow  less.     Did  fie  save  you  ?" 

"  He,"  said  Edith,  "  of  whom  you  speak  does 
not  know  that  I  am  alive,  nor  do  I  know  where 
he  is.  Yet  some  day  we  will  ])erhaps  meet.  Ani 
now  you  must  not  speak.  You  will  agitate  your- 
self too  much.  Here  you  have  those  who  love 
you.  For  the  one  who  brought  you  here  is  one 
who  would  lay  down  his  life  for  yours,  dearest — 
he  is  Paolo  Langhetti." 

"Langhetti!"  said  Beatiice.  "Oh,  God  be 
thanked !" 

"  And  she  who  has  taken  you  to  her  heart  and 
home  is  his  sister. "'  • 

"His  sister  Teresa,  of  whom  he  used  to  speak 
so  lovingly  ?  Ah  !  God  is  kinder  to  me  than  I 
feared.  Ah,  me !  it  is  as  though  I  had  died  and 
have  awaked  in  heaven." 

"But  now  I  will  speak  no  more,  and  you  must 
speak  no  more,  for  you  will  only  increase  your 
agitation.  Kest,  and  another  time  you  can  ask 
what  you  i)lease," 

Edith  turned  away  and  walked  to  one  of  the 
windows,  where  she  looked  out  pensively  upon 
the  sea. 

From  this  time  Beatrice  began  to  recover  rap- 
idly, Langhettis  sister  seemed  to  her  almost 
like  an  old  friend  since  she  had  been  associated 
with  some  of  her  most  pleasant  memories.  An 
atmosphere  of  love  was  around  her:  the  poor 
sufferer  inhaled  the  pure  and  life-giving  air,  and 
strength  came  with  every  breath. 

At  length  she  was  able  to  sit  up,  and  then 
Langhetti  saw  her.  He  greeted  her  with  all 
the  ardent  and  impassioned  warmth  which  was 
so  striking  a  characteristic  of  his  impulsive  and 
affectionate  nature.     Then  she  saw  I)es])ard. 

There  was  something  about  this  man  which 
filled  her  with  indefinable  emotions.  The  knowl- 
edge which  she  had  of  the  mysterious  fate  of  his 
father  did  not  repel  her  from  him,  A  wonderful 
and  subtle  sympathy  seemed  at  once  to  arise  be- 
tween the  two.    The  stem  face  of  Despard  as- 


m 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


'AS   DliATRICE   OI'ENKD   HER   EYES   AFTER   HER    LONG   UNCONSCIOUSNESS   SH^   LOOKED 

AROUND    IN  WONDER." 


sumed  a  softer  and  more  genial  expression  when 
he  saw  her.  His  tone  was  gentle  and  aflfection- 
ate,  almost  paternal. 

What  was  the  feeling  that  arose  within  her 
heart  toward  this  man  ?  With  the  one  for  her 
father  who  had  inflicted  on  his  father  so  terrible 
a  fate,  how  did  she  dare  to  look  him  in  the  face 
or  exchange  words  with  him?  Should  slie  not 
rather  shrink  away  as  once  she  shrank  from 
Brandon  ? 

Yet  she  did  not  shrink.  His  presence  brought 
a  strange  peace  and  calm  over  her  soul.  His  in- 
fluence was  more  potent  over  her  than  that  of 
Langhetti.  In  this  strange  company  he  seemed 
to  her  to  be  the  centre  and  the  chief. 


To  Beatrice  Edith  was  an  impenetrable  mys- 
tery. Her  whole  manner  excited  her  deepest 
reverence  and  at  the  same  time  her  strongest  cu- 
riosity. The  fact  that  she  was  his  sister  would 
of  itself  have  won  her  heart ;  but  there  were  oth- 
er things  about  her  which  affected  her  strangely. 

Edith  moved  among  the  others  with  a  strange, 
far-off  air,  an  air  at  once  full  of  gentle  affection, 
yet  preoccupied.  Her  manner  ir.'ijcated  lo.e, 
yet  the  love  of  one  who  was  far  above  them,  f-he 
was  like  some  grown  person  associating  with 
young  children  whom  he  loved.  "  Her  soul  was 
like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart. " 

Paolo  seemed  more  like  an  equal ;  but  Paolo 
himself  approached  equality  only  because  he  could 


I 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


I4i 


understand  her  best.  lie  alone  could  enter  into 
conimuiiiou  with  her.  liuatrice  noticed  a  pro- 
fuund  iind  unalterable  leveience  in  his  man- 
ner toward  Editli,  which  was  like  that  which  a 
son  might  j)ay  a  moiher,  yet  more  delicate  and 
more  chivalrous.  All  this,  however,  was  beyond 
her  comprehension. 

She  once  questioned  Mrs.  Thornton,  btit  re- 
ceived no  satisfaction.  Mrs.  Thornton  looked 
mysterious,  but  shook  her  head. 

"  Your  brother  treats  her  like  a  divinity." 

"I  suppose  he  thinks  she  is  something  more 
than  mortal." 

"Do  you  have  that  awe  of  her  which  I  feel ?" 

"  Yes :  and  so  does  every  one.  I  feel  toward 
Iier  as  though  she  belonged  to  another  world. 
t?he  takes  no  interest  in  this." 

"She  nursed  me." 

"Oh  yes!  P>ery  act  of  love  or  kindness 
which  she  can  perform  she  seeks  out  and  does, 
but  now  as  you  grow  better  she  falls  back  upon 
herself." 

Surrounded  by  such  friends  as  these  Beatrice 
rapidly  regained  her  strength.  Weeks  went  on, 
and  at  length  she  began  to  move  about,  to  take 
long  rides  and  drives,  and  to  stroll  through  the 
Vark. 

Daring  these  weeks  Paolo  made  known  to  her 
his  plans.     She  embraced  them  eagerly. 

"  You  have  a  mission, "  said  he.  "  It  was  not 
fL)r  nothing  that  your  divine  voice  was  given  to 
you.  I  have  written  my  opera  under  the  most 
extraordinary  circumstances.  You  know  what 
it  is.  Never  have  I  been  able  to  decide  how  it 
should  be  represented.  I  have  prayed  for  a 
Voice.  At  my  time  of  need  you  were  thrown  in 
my  way.  My  Bice,  God  has  sent  you.  Let  us 
labor  together." 

Beatrice  grasped  eagerly  at  this  idea.  To  be 
a  singer,  to  interpret  the  thoughts  of  Langhet- 
li,  seemed  delightful  to  her.  Slie  woidd  then  be 
dependent  on  no  friend.  She  would  be  her  own 
mistress.  She  would  not  be  forced  to  lead  a  life 
of  idleness,  with  her  heart  i)reying  upon  itself 
Music  would  come  to  her  aid.  It  would  be  at 
once  the  purpose,  the  employment,  and  the  de- 
light of  her  life.  If  there  was  one  thing  to  her 
which  could  alleviate  sorrow  and  grief  it  was  the 
exultant  joy  which  was  ci-eated  within  her  by  the 
Divine  Art — that  Art  which  alone  is  common  to 
earth  and  heaven.  And  for  Beatrice  there  was 
this  joy,  that  she  had  one  of  those  natures  which 
was  so  sensitive  to  music  that  under  its  power 
heaven  itself  appeared  to  open  before  her. 

All  these  were  lovers  of  music,  and  therefore 
lia<l  delights  to  which  common  mortals  are  stran- 
gers. To  the  soul  which  is  endowed  with  the 
capacity  for  understanding  the  delights  of  tone 
there  are  joys  peculiar,  at  once  pure  and  enduring, 
which  nothing  else  that  this  world  gives  can  equal. 

Langhetti  was  the  high-priest  of  this  charmed 
circle.  Edith  was  the  presiding  or  inspiring  di- 
>iuitj'-.  Beatrice  was  the  medium  of  utterance 
— the  Voice  that  brought  down  heaven  to  earth. 

Mrs.  Thornton  and  Despard  stood  apart,  the 
recipients  of  the  sublime  effects  and  holy  emo- 
tions which  the  others  wrought  out  within  them. 

Edith  was  like  the  soul. 

I.Anghetti  like  the  mind. 

Beatrice  resembled  the  material  element  by 
which  the  spiritual  is  communicated  to  man. 
Hers  was  the  Voice  which  spoke. 


I.4inghetti  thought  that  they  as  a  trio  of  pow- 
ers formed  a  meaiis  of  comnmnicating  new  reve- 
lations to  man.  It  was  natural  indeed  that  he 
in  his  high  and  generous  enthusiasm  should  have 
some  such  thoughts  as  these,  and  should  look  for- 
ward with  delight  to  the  time  when  his  work 
should  first  be  performed.  Edith,  who  lived  and 
moved  in  an  atmosphere  beyond  human  feeling, 
was  above  the  level  of  his  enthusiasm  ;  but  Bea- 
trice caught  it  all,  and  in  her  own  generous  anc- 
susceptible  nature  this  jjui-pose  of  Langhetti  pro- 
duced the  most  powerful  ettects. 

In  the  church  where  Mrs.  Thornton  and  Des- 
pard had  80  often  met  there  was  now  a  new  per- 
fonnance.  Here  Langhetti  played.  Be  trice 
sang,  Edith  smiled  as  she  heard  the  expres- 
sion of  heavenly  ideas,  and  Despard  and  Mrs. 
Thornton  found  themselves  borne  away  from  all 
common  thoughts  by  the  power  of  that  sublime 
rehearsal. 

As  time  pas.sed  and  Beatrice  grew  stronger 
Langhetti  became  more  impatient  about  his  op- 
era. The  voice  of  Beatrice,  always  marvelous, 
had  not  suffered  during  her  sickness.  Nay,  if 
any  thing,  it  had  grown  better;  her  soul  had 
gained  new  susceptibilities  since  Langhetti  last 
saw  her,  and  since  she  could  understand  more 
and  feel  more,  her  expression  itself  had  liecome 
more  subtle  and  refined.  So  that  Voice  which 
Langhetti  had  always  called  divine  had  put  forth 
new  powers,  and  he,  if  he  believed  himself  the 
High-Priest  and  Beatrice  the  Pythian,  saw  that 
her  inspiration  had  grown  more  deUcate  and 
more  profound. 

"We  will  not  set  up  a  new  Delphi,"  said  he. 
"Our  revelations  are  not  new.  We  but  give 
fresh  and  extraordinary  emphasis  to  old  aud 
eternal  truths." 

In  preparing  for  the  great  work  before  them  it 
was  necessary  to  get  a  name  for  Beatrice.  Her 
own  name  was  doubly  abhoiTent — first,  from  her 
own  life-long  hate  of  it,  which  later  circumstances 
had  intensified ;  and,  secondly,  from  the  dam- 
ning efl'ect  which  sucli  a  name  would  have  on  the 
fortune  of  any  artiste.  Langhetti  wished  her  to 
take  his  name,  but  Despard  showed  an  extraor- 
dinary pertinacity  on  this  point. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  am  personally  concerned 
in  this.  I  adopted  her.  She  is  my  sister.  Her 
name  is  Despard.  If  she  takes  any  other  name 
I  shall  consider  it  as  an  intolerable  slight." 

He  expressed  himself  so  strongly  that  Beatrice 
could  not  refuse.  Formerly  she  would  have  con- 
sidered that  it  was  infamous  for  her  to  take  that 
noble  name ;  but  now  this  idea  had  become  weak, 
and  it  was  with  a  strange  exultation  that  she  yield- 
ed to  the  solicitations  of  Despard. 

Langhetti  himself  yielded  at  once.  His  face 
bore  an  expression  of  delight  which  seemed  in- 
explicable to  Beatrice.  She  asked  him  why  he 
felt  such  j)Ieasure.  Was  not  an  Italian  name  bet- 
ter for  a  singer  ?  Despard  was  an  English  name, 
and,  though  aristocratic,  waa  not  one  which  a 
great '"  "Ter  might  have. 

"I  am  thinking  of  other  things,  my  Bicina." 
said  Langhetti,  who  had  never  given  up  his  old, 
fond,  fratenial  manner  toward  her.  "  It  has  no 
connection  with  art.  I  do  not  consider  the  mere 
effect  of  the  name  for  one  moment." 

"  What  is  it,  then,  that  you  do  consider?" 

"Other  things." 

"What  other  things?" 


142 


CORD  AKD  CREESE. 


"  Not  connected  with  Art, "continued  Langhet- 
ti,  evasively.  "  1  will  tell  you  some  day  when  the 
time  comes." 

"Now  you  are  excitin^^  my  curiosity,"  said 
Beatrice,  in  a  low  and  earnest  tone.  "  You  do 
nftt  know  what  thoughts  you  excite  within  me. 
Either  you  ought  not  to  excite  such  ideas,  or  if 
you  do,  it  is  your  duty  to  satisfy  them." 

"It  is  not  time  yet." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"That  is  a  secret." 

"  Of  course ;  you  make  it  one ;  but  if  it  is  one 
connected  with  me,  then  surely  I  ought  to  know." 

"  It  is  not  time  yet  for  you  to  know," 

"  When  will  it  be  time  ?" 

"I  cannot  telL" 

"And  you  will  therefore  keep  it  a  secret  tor- 
ever?" 

"I  hope,  my  Bicina,  that  the  time  will  come 
before  long." 

"Yet  why  do  you  wait,  if  you  know  or  even 
suspect  any  thing  in  which  1  am  concerned  ?" 

"I  wish  to  spare  you." 

"That  is  not  necessary.  Am  I  so  weak  tiiat 
I  can  not  bear  to  hear  any  thing  which  you  may 
have  to  tell  ?  You  forget  what  a  life  I  have  had 
for  two  years.  Such  a  life  might  well  prepare 
me  for  any  thing." 

"If  it  were  merely  something  which  might 
create  sorrow  I  would  tell  it.  I  believe  that 
you  have  a  self-reliant  nature,  which  has  grown 
stronger  through  affliction.  But  that  which, I 
have  to  tell  is  different.  It  is  of  such  a  charac- 
ter that  it  would  of  necessity  destroy  any.  peace 
of  mind  which  you  have,  and  fill  you  with  hopes 
and  feelings  that  could  never  be  satisfied." 

"Yet  even  that  I  coidd  bear.  Do  you  not 
fee  that  by  your  very  vagueness  you  are  exciting 
my  thoughts  and  hopes  ?  You  do  not  know  what 
I  know." 

' '  What  do  you  know  ?"  asked  liiEghetti,  ea- 
gerly. 

Beatrice  hesitated.  No;  she  could  not  tell. 
That  would  be  to  tell  all  the  holiest  secrets  of 
lier  heart.  For  she  must  then  tell  about  Bran- 
don, and  the  African  island,  and  the  manuscript 
which  he  carried  and  which  had  been  taken  from 
his  bosom.     Of  this  she  dared  not  speak. 

She  waB  silent. 

"You  can  not  know  any  thing,"  said  Lan- 
ghetti.  "  You  may  suspect  much.  I  only  have 
suspicions.  Yet  it  would  not  be  wise  to  com- 
municate these  to  you,  since  they  would  prove 
idle  and  without  result." 

So  the  conversation  ended,  and  Langhetti  still 
maintained  his  secret,  though  Beatrice  hoped  to 
find  it  out. 

At  length  she  was  sufficiently  recovered  to  be 
able  to  begin  the  work  to  which  Langhetti  wished 
to  lead  her.  It  was  August,  and  Langhetti  was 
impatient  to  be  gone.  So  when  August  began  he 
made  preparations  to  depart,  and  in  a  few  days 
they  were  in  London.  Edith  v— s  left  with  Mrs. 
Thornton.  Beatrice  had  an  attendant  who  went 
with  her,  half  chaperon  half  lady's  maid. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE   AFFAIRS   OF   SMITUER8    A   CO. 

For  more  than  a  year  the  vast  operations  of 
Smithers  &  Co.  had  astonished  business  circles 
in  London.  Formerly  they  had  been  consid- 
ered as  an  eminently  respectable  house,  and  as 
doing  a  safe  business ;  but  of  late  all  this  had 
been  changed  in  so  sudden  and  wonderful  a  man- 
ner that  no  one  could  account  for  it.  Leaving 
aside  their  old,  cautious  policy,  they  undertook 
without  hesitation  the  largest  enterprises.  For- 
eign railroads,  national  loans,  vast  joint-stock 
companies — these  were  the  things  that  now  occu- 
pied Smithers  &  Co.  The  Barings  themselves 
were  outrivaled,  and  Smithers  &  Co.  reached  the 
acme  of  their  sudden  glory  on  one  occasion,  when 
they  took  the  new  Spanish  loan  out  of  the  grasp 
of  even  the  Rothschilds  themselves. 

How  to  account  for  it  became  the  problem. 
For,  allowing  the  largest  possible  success  in  their 
former  business  to  Smithers  &  Co.,  that  business 
had  never  been  of  sufficient  dimensions  to  allow 
of  this.  Some  said  that  a  rich  Indian  had  be- 
come a  sleeping  partner,  others  declared  that  the 
real  Smithers  was  no  more  to  be  seen,  and  that 
the  business  was  managed  by  strangers  who  had 
bought  them  out  and  retained  their  name.  Otli- 
erS  again  said  that  Smithers  &  Co.  had  made 
large  amounts  in  California  mining  speculations. 
At  length  the  general  belief  was,  tha*  some  indi- 
viduals who  had  made  millions  of  money  in  C'aU- 
fomia  had  bought  out  Smithers  &  Co. ,  and  were 
now  doing  business  under  their  name. 

As  to  their  soundness  there  was  no  question. 
Their  operations  were  such  as  demanded,  first  of 
all,  ready  money  in  unlimited  quantities.  This 
they  were  always  able  to  command.  Between 
them  and  the  Bank  of  England  there  seemed 
to  be  the  most  perfect  understanding  and  tlie 
most  enviable  confidence.  The  Rothschilds  spoke 
of  them  with  infinite  respect.  People  began  to 
look  upon  them  as  the  leading  house  in  Eurojje. 
The  sudden  apparition  of  this  tremendous  power 
in  the  commercial  world  threw  that  world  into  a 
state  of  consternation  which  finally  ended  in  won- 
dering awe. 

But  Smithers  &  Co.  continued  calmly,  yet  suc- 
cessfully, their  great  enterj)rises.  The  Russian 
loan  of  fifteen  laillions  was  negotiated  by  them. 
They  took  twenty  millions  of  the  French  loan, 
five  millions  of  the  Austrian,  and  two  and  a 
half  of  the  Turkish.  They  took  nearly  all  the 
stock  of  the  Lyons  and  Marseilles  Railroad. 
They  owned  a  large  portion  of  the  stock  of  the 
Peninsular  and  Oriental  Steam  Navigation  Com- 
pany. They  had  ten  millions  of  East  India 
stock.  California  alone,  whi'-h  was  now  daz- 
zling the  world,  could  account  to  the  common 
mind  for  such  enormous  wealth. 

Tne  strangest  thing  was  that  Smithers  himself 
was  never  seen.  The  business  was  done  by  his 
subordinates.  There  was  a  young  man  who  rep- 
resented the  houso  in  public,  and  who  called 
himself  Henderso.i.  He  Avas  a  person  of  distin- 
guished aspect,  yet  of  resened  and  somewhat 
melancholy  manner.  No  one  pretended  to  be 
in  his  confidence.  No  one  pretended  to  know 
whether  he  was,  clerk  or  partner.  As  he  was 
the  only  representative  of  Smithers  &  Co.,  lie 
was  treated  with  marked  respect  wherever  he  ap- 
peared. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


143 


The  young  man,  whether  partner  or  clerk,  had 
evidently  the  supreme  control  of  affairs.  He 
swayed  in  his  own  hands  the  thunder-bolts  of 
this  Olympian  power.  Nothing  daunted  him. 
The  grandeur  of  his  enterprises  dazzled  the  pub- 
lic mind.  His  calm  antagonism  to  the  great 
houses  of  London  filled  them  with  surprise.  A 
new  power  had  seized  a  high  place  in  the  com- 
mercial world,  and  the  old  gods — the  Rothschilds, 
the  Barings,  and  others — looked  aghast.  At  first 
they  tried  to  despise  this  interloper;  at  length 
they  found  him  at  least  as  strong  as  themsftlves, 
and  began  to  fancy  that  he  might  be  stronger.  A 
few  experiments  soon  taught  them  that  there  was 
no  weakness  there.  On  one  occasion  the  Roths- 
childs, true  to  their  ordinary  selfish  policy,  made 
a  desperate  attempt  to  crush  the  new  house  which 
dared  to  ent6r  into  rivalry  with  them.  Wide- 
spread plans  were  arranged  in  such  a  way  that 
large  demands  were  made  upon  them  on  one  day. 
The  amount  was  nearly  two  millions.  Smithers 
&  Co.  showed  not  the  smallest  hesitation.  Hen- 
derson, their  representative,  did  not  even  take 
the  trouble  to  confer  with  the  Bank  of  England. 
He  sent  his  orders  to  the  Bank.  The  money  was 
furnished.  It  was  the  Directors  of  the  Bank  of 
England  who  looked  aghast  at  this  struggle  be- 
tween Rothschild  and  Smithers  &  Co.  The  gold 
in  the  Bank  vaults  sank  low,  and  the  next  day 
the  rates  of  discount  were  raised.  All  London 
felt  the  result  of  that  struggle. 

Smithers  &  Co.  waited  for  a  few  months,  and 
then  suddenly  retorted  with  tenific  force.  The 
obligations  of  the  Rothschilds  were  obtained  from 
all  quarters — some  which  were  due  were  held  over 
and  not  presented  till  the  appointed  day.  Obliga- 
tions in  many  forms — in  all  the  forms  of  indebt- 
edness that  may  arise  in  a  vast  business — all  these 
had  been  collected  from  various  quarters  with 
untiring  industry  and  extraordinary  outlay  of 
care  and  money.  At  last  in  one  day  they  were 
all  poured  upon  the  Rothschilds.  Nearly  four 
millions  of  money  were  required  to  meet  that 
demand. 

The  great  house  of  Rothschild  reeled  under  the 
blow.  Smithers  &  Co.  were  the  ones  who  ad- 
ministered it.  James  Rothschild  had  a  private 
interview  with  the  Directors  of  the  Bank  of  En- 
gland. There  was  a  sudden  and  enormous  sale 
of  securities  that  day  on  'Change.  In  selling  out 
such  large  amounts  the  loss  was  enormous.  It 
was  difficult  to  find  purchasers,  but  Smithers  & 
Co.  stepped  forward  and  bought  nearly  all  that 
was  offered.  The  Rothschilds  saved  themselves, 
of  course,  but  at  a  terrible  loss,  which  became  the 
profits  of  Smithers  &  Co. 

The  Rothschilds  retreated  from  the  conflict  ut- 
terly routed,  and  glad  to  escape  disaster  of  a 
worse  kind.  Smithers  &  Co.  came  forth  victori- 
ous. They  had  beaten  the  Rothschilds  at  their 
own  game,  and  had  made  at  least  half  a  mill- 
ion. All  London  rang  with  the  story.  It  was  a 
bitter  humiliation  for  that  proud  Jewish  house 
which  for  years  had  never  met  with  a  rival.  Yet 
there  was  no  help,  nor  was  there  the  slightest 
chance  of  revenge.  They  were  forced  to  swallow 
the  result  as  best  they  could,  and  to  try  to  regain 
what  they  had  lost. 

After  this  the  pale  and  melancholy  face  of 
Henderson  excited  a  deeper  interest.  This  was 
the  man  who  had  beaten  the  Rothschilds — the 
strongest  capitalist  in  the  world.     In  his  finan- 


cial operations  he  continued  as  calm,  as  grave, 
and  as  immovable  as  ever.  He  would  risk  mill- 
ions without  moving  a  muscle  of  his  countenance. 
Yet  so  sagacious  was  he,  so  wide-spread  were  his 
agencies,  so  accurate  was  his  secret  information, 
that  his  plans  scarcely  ever  failed.  His  capital 
was  so  vast  that  it  often  gave  him  control  of  the 
market.  Coming  into  the  field  untrammeled  as 
the  older  houses  wore,  he  had  a  larger  control  of 
money  than  any  of  them,  and  &x  greater  freedom 
of  action. 

After  a  time  the  Rothschilds,  th$  Barings,  and 
other  great  bankere,  began  to  learn  that  Smith- 
ers &  Co.  had  vast  funds  every  where,  in  all  the 
capitals  of  Europe,  and  in  America.  Even  in 
the  West  Indies  their  operations  were  extensive. 
Their  old  Australian  agency  was  enlarged,  and  a 
new  banking-house  founded  by  them  in  Calcutta 
began  to  act  on  the  same  vast  scale  as  the  lead- 
ing house  at  London.  Smithers  &  Co.  also  con- 
tinued to  carry  on  a  policy  which  was  hostile  to 
those  older  bankers.  The  Rothscliikls  in  partic- 
ular felt  this,  and  were  in  perpetual  dread  of  a 
renewal  of  that  tremendous  assault  under  which 
they  had  once  nearly  gone  down.  They  became 
timid,  and  were  compelled  to  arrange  their  busi- 
ness so  as  to  guard  against  this  possibility.  This, 
of  coui-se,  checked  their  operations,  and  widened 
and  enlarged  the  field  of  action  for  their  rivals. 

No  one  knew  any  thing  whatever  about  Hen- 
derson. None  of  the  clerks  could  tell  any  thing 
concerning  him.  They  were  all  new  hands. 
None  of  them  had  ever  seen  Smithers.  They  all 
believed  that  Henderson  was  the  junior  partner, 
and  that  the  senior  spent  bi«  time  abroad.  From 
this  it  began  to  be  believed  that  Smithers  staid  in 
California  digging  gold,  which  he  diligently  re- 
mitted to  the  Ixmdon  house. 

At  length  the  clerks  began  to  speak  mysteri- 
ously of  a  man  *vho  came  from  time  to  time  to 
the  oflBce,  and  whose  whole  manner  showed  him 
to  possess  authority  there.  The  treatment  which 
he  received  from  Henderson — at  once  cordial  and 
affectionate — showed  them  to  be  most  intimate 
and  friendly ;  and  from  words  which  were  dropped 
they  all  thought  him  to  be  the  senior  partner. 
Yet  he  appeared  to  be  very  little  older  than  Hen- 
derson, if  as  old,  and  no  one  even  knew  his  name. 
If  any  thing  could  add  to  the  inteiest  with  which 
the  house  of  Smithers  &  Co.  was  regarded  it  was 
thisimpenetrablemysteiy,  which  baffled  notmere- 
ly  outsiders  but  even  the  clerks  themselves. 

Shortly  after  the  <leparture  of  Langhetti  and 
Beatrice  from  Holby  two  men  were  seated  in  the 
inner  parlor  of  the  office  of  Smithers  &  Co.  One 
was  the  man  kno^vn  as  Henderson,  the  other  the 
mysterious  senior  partner. 

They  had  just  come  in  and  letters  were  lying 
on  the  table. 

"  You've  got  a  large  number  this  morning, 
Frank  ?"  eaid  the  senior  partner. 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank,  turning  them  over ;  "  and 
here,  Louis,  is  one  for  you. "  He  took  out  a  let- 
ter from  the  pile  and  handed  it  to  Louis.  "  It's 
from  your  Brandon  Hall  correspondent, "  he  add- 
ed. 

Louis  eat  down  and  opened  it.  The  letter  was 
as  follows : 

"^«yiM<15,  1849. 

"Dear  Sir, — I  have  had  nothing  in  jwrticu- 
lar  to  write  since  the  flight  of  Miss  Potts,  except 
to  tell  you  what  they  were  doing.    I  have  already 


<u 


CORD  AND  CKEESE. 


LANGHETTI   18   ALIVE. 


informed  you  that  they  kept  three  spies  at  Holby 
to  watch  her.  One  of  these  returned,  as  I  told 
you  in  my  last  letter,  with  the  information  that 
she  had  gone  to  London  with  a  party  named  Lan- 
ghettL  Ever  since  then  they  have  been  talking 
it  over,  and  have  come  to  the  conclusion  to  get  a 
detective,  and  keep  him  busy  watching  her  with 
the  idea  of  getting  her  back,  I  think.  I  hope  to 
God  they  will  not  get  her  back .  1  f  you  take  any 
interest  in  her,  Sir,  as  you  appear  to  do,  I  hope 
you  will  use  your  powerful  arm  to  save  her.  It 
will  be  terrible  if  she  has  to  come  back  here. 
She  will  die,  I  know.  Hoping  soon  to  have 
something  more  to  oommunicate, 

"I  remain,  yours  respectfullv, 

"E.  L. 
"Mr.  SMiTHBits,  Sen.,  London."  •  . 


Louis  read  this  letter  over  several  times  and 
fell  into  deep  thought. 

Frank  went  on  reading  his  letters,  looking  up 
from  time  to  time.  At  last  he  put  down  the  last 
one. 

"Louis!"  said  he. 

Louis  looked  up. 

"  You  came  so  late  last  night  that  I  haven't 
had  a  chance  to  speak  about  any  thing  yet.  I 
want  to  tell  yon  something  verv  important." 

'•Well!" 

"  Langhetti  is  alive." 

"I  know  it." 

"  You  knew  it !  When  ?  Why  did  you  not 
tell  me?" 

"  I  didn't  want  to  tell  any  thing  that  might 
distract  you  from  your  purpose." 


CORD  AND  CHEESE. 


145 


"  I  am  not  a  child,  Louis !  After  my  victoiy 
over  Kothscliild  1  ought  to  be  worthy  ot  your  con- 
fidence." 

"That's  not  the  point,  Frank,"  said  Louis; 
"but  I  itnow  your  attection  for  thfl  man,  and  1 
thouglit  you  would  give  up  all  to  tind  him." 

"Well!" 

"Well.  I  thought  it  would  be  better  to  let 
nothing  interpose  now  between  ns  and  our  pur- 
pose. No,"  he  continued,  with  a  stem  tone, 
"  no,  no  one  however  dear,  however  loved,  and 
therefore  I  said  nothing  about  Lungiietti.  I 
thought  that  your  generous  heart  would  only  be 
distressed.  You  would  feel  like  giving  up  every 
thing  to  find  him  out  and  see  him,  and,  therefore, 
I  did  not  wi:-h  you  even  to  know  it.  Yet  1  have 
kept  an  account  of  his  movements,  and  know 
where  he  is  now." 

"  He  is  here  in  London,"  said  Frank,  with 
deep  emotion. 

•'  Yes,  thank  God  I"  said  Louis.  "  You  will  see 
him,  and  we  all  will  be  able  to  meet  some  day." 

"  But,"  nsked  Frank,  "do  you  not  think  Lan- 
ghetti  is  a  man  to  be  trusted  'i  ' 

"That  is  not  the  point,"  replied  Louis.  "I 
believe  Langhetti  is  one  of  the  noblest  men  that 
ever  lived.  It  must  be  so  from  what  I  ha.e 
heard.  All  my  life  I  will  cherish  his  name  and 
try  to  assist  him  in  every  possiWe  way.  I  be- 
lieve also  that  if  we  requested  it  he  might  perhaps 
keep  our  secret.  But  that  is  not  the  point,  Frank. 
'I'liis  is  the  way  I  look  at  it :  We  are  dead.  Our 
deaths  have  been  recorded.  Louis  Brandon  and 
Frank  Brandon  have  i)erished.  I  am  Wheeler, 
or  Smithers,  or  Forsyth,  or  any  body  else ;  you 
are  Henderson?  We  keep  our  secret  because  we 
have  a  purpose  before  us.  Our  father  calls  us 
from  his  tomb  to  its  accomplishment.  Our  mo- 
liier  summons  us.  Our  sweet  sister  Edith,  from 
her  grave  of  horror  unutterable,  calls  ns.  All 
personal  feeling  must  stand  aside,  Frank — ^yours 
and  mine — whatever  they  be,  till  we  have  done 
our  duty. " 

"  You  are  right,  Louis,"  said  Frank,  sternly. 

"Langhetti  is  in  London, '  continued  Louis. 
"  You  will  not  see  him,  but  you  can  siiow  your 
gratitude,  and  so  can  I.  He  is  going  to  hire  an 
opera-house  to  bring  out  an  ojiera ;  I  saw  that  in 
the  papers.  It  is  a  thing  full  of  risk,  but  he  per- 
haps does  not  think  of  that.  Let  us  enable  him 
to  gain  the  desire  of  his  heart.  Let  us  fill  the 
house  for  him.  You  can  send  your  agents  to 
furnish  tickets  to  people  who  may  make  the  au- 
dience ;  or  you  can  send  around  those  who  can 
praise  him  sufficiently.  I  don't  know  what  his 
opera  may  be  worth.  I  know,  however,  from 
what  I  have  learned,  that  he  has  musical  genius ; 
and  I  think  if  we  give  him  a  good  start  he  will 
succeed.  That  is  the  way  to  show  your  grati- 
tude, Frank." 

"I'll  arrange  all  that!"  said  Frank.  "The 
house  shall  be  crowded.  Ill  send  an  agent  to 
him — I  can  easily  find  out  where  he  is,  I  sup- 
pose— and  make  him  an  offer  of  Covent  Garden 
theatre  on  his  own  terms.  Yes,  Langhetti  shall 
luive  a  fair  chance.  I'll  arrange  a  plan  to  enforce 
success." 

"  Do  so,  and  you  will  keep  him  permanently 
in  London  till  the  time  comes  when  we  can  arise 
tVnm  the  dead." 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  Louis  had 
thoughts  of  his  own,  excited  by  the  letter  which 


he  had  received,  and  these  thoughts  he  did  not 
care  to  utter.  One  thing  was  a  secret  even  from 
Frank. 

And  what  could  he  do?  That  Beatrice  had 
fallen  among  friends  he  well  knew.  He  had 
found  this  out  when,  afier  receiving  a  letter  from 
Philips  about  her  flight,  he  had  hurried  there 
and  learned  the  result.  Then  he  had  himself 
gone  to  Holby,  and  found  that  she  was  at  Mrs. 
'I'hornton's.  He  had  watched  till  she  had  recov 
ered.  He  had  seen  her  as  she  took  a  drive  in 
Thornton's  carriage.  He  had  left  an  agent  there 
to  write  him  about  her  when  he  left. 

What  was  he  to  do  now  ?  He  read  the  letter 
over  again.  He  paused  at  that  sentence  :  ' '  They 
have  been  talking  it  over,  and  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  to  get  a  detective,  and  keep  him  busy 
watching  her  with  the  idea  of  getting  her  back." 

What  was  the  nature  of  this  danger?  Beatrice 
was  of  age.  Mie  was  with  Langhetti.  h he  was 
her  ow  n  mistress.  Could  there  l)e  any  danger 
of  her  being  taken  back  against  her  will  ?  'I'he 
villains  at  Brandon  Hall  were  sufliciendy  un- 
scrupulous, but  would  they  dare  to  commit  any 
violence  ?  and  if  they  did,  would  not  Langhetti  s 
protection  save  her  ? 

Such  were  his  thoughts.  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  considered  the  fact  that  she  was  inex- 
perienced, and  might  have  peculiar  ideas  about  a 
father's  authority.  If  Potts  came  himself,  de- 
manding her  return,  perhaps,  out  of  a  mistaken  ■ 
sense  of  filial  duty,  she  might  go  with  him.  Or, 
even  if  she  was  unwilling  to  do  so,  she  might 
yield  to  coercion,  and  not  feel  justified  in  resist- 
ing. The  ])ossibility  of  this  filled  him  with  hor- 
ror. The  idea  of  her  being  taken  back  to  live 
under  the  power  of  those  miscreants  from  whom 
she  had  escaped  was  intolerable.  Yet  he  knew 
not  what  to  do. 

Between  him  and  her  there  was  a  gidf  unfath- 
omable, impassable.  She  was  one  of  that  ac- 
cursed brood  which  he  was  seeking  to  exterm- 
inate. He  would  spare  her  if  possible;  he  would 
gladly  lay  down  his  life  to  save  her  fiom  one  mo- 
ments  misery ;  but  if  she  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
vengeance,  could  he — dared  he  stny  that  venge- 
ance? For  that  he  would  sacrifice  life  itself! 
Would  he  refuse  to  sacrifice  even  her  if  she  were 
more  dear  than  life  itself? 

Yet  here  was  a  case  in  which  she  was  no  lon- 
ger connected  with,  but  striving  to  sever  herself 
from  them.  She  was  flying  from  that  accursed 
father  of  hers.  Would  he  stand  idly  by,  and  see 
her  in  danger?  That  were  impossible.  All  along, 
ever  since  his  return  to  England,  he  had  watch- 
ed over  her,  unseen  himself  and  unsuspected  by 
her,  and  had  followed  her  footsteps  when  she  fled. 
To  desert  her  now  was  impossible.  The  only 
question  with  him  was — how  to  watch  her  or 
guard  her. 

(Jne  thing  gave  him  comfort,  and  that  was  the 
guardianship  of  Langhetti.  This  he  thought 
was  sufficient  to  insure  her  safety.  For  surely 
Langhetti  would  know  the  character  of  her  ene- 
mies as  well  as  Beatrice  herself,  and  so  guard 
her  as  to  insure  her  safety  from  any  attempt  of 
theirs.  He  therefore  placed  his  chief  reliance  on 
Langhetti,  and  determined  merely  to  secure  some 
one  who  would  watch  over  her,  and  let  him  know 
from  day  to  day  how  she  fared.  Had  he  thought 
it  necessary  he  would  have  sent  a  band  of  men  to 
watch  and  guard  her  by  day  and  night ;  but  this 


146 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


idea  never  entered  his  mind  for  the  simple  reason 
that  he  did  nut  think  the  danger  was  pressing. 
England  was  after  uU  a  country  of  law,  and  even 
a  father  could  nut  <-arry  off  his  daughter  against 
her  will  when  she  was  uf  uge.  So  he  comforted 
himself 

"  Well,"  said  he,  at  laat,  rousing  himself  from 
his  abstraction,  "  how  is  Potts  now  ?" 

"Deeper  than  ever,"  answered  Frank,  quietly. 

"The  Brandon  Bank— " 

"The  Brandon  Bank  has  been  going  at  a  rate 
that  would  have  foundered  any  other  concern 
long  ago.  There's  not  a  man  that  I  sent  there 
who  has  not  been  welcomed  and  obtained  all 
that  ho  wanted.  Most  of  the  money  that  they 
advanced  has  been  to  men  that  I  sent.  They 
drew  on  us  for  the  money  and  sent  us  various 
securities  of  their  own,  holding  the  securities  of 
these  applicants.  It  is  simply  bewildering  to 
think  how  easily  that  scoundrel  fell  into  the 
snare." 

"When  a  man  has  made  a  fortune  easily  he 
gets  rid  of  it  easily,"  said  Louis,  laconically. 

' '  Potts  thinks  that  all  his  applicants  are  lead- 
ing men  of  the  county.  I  take  good  care  that 
they  go  there  as  baronets  at  least.  Some  are 
lords.  lie  is  overjwwered  in  the  presence  of 
these  lords,  and  gives  them  what  they  ask  on 
their  own  terms.  In  his  letters  he  has  made 
some  attempts  at  an  expression  of  gratitude  for 
our  great  liberality.  This  I  enjoyed  somewhat. 
The  villain  is  not  a  difScult  one  to  manage,  at 
least  in  the  financial  way.  I  leave  the  denouement 
to  you,  Louis." 

"The  denouement  must  not  be  long  delayed 
now." 

"Well,  for  that  matter  things  are  so  arranged 
that  we  may  have  '  the  beginning  of  the  end'  as 
soon  as  you  choose." 

"What  are  the  debts  of  the  Brandon  Bank  to 
ns  now  ?" 

"Five  hundred  and  fifteen  thousand  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  jjounds,"  said  Frank. 

"Five  hundred  thousand — very  good,"  re- 
turned Louis,  thoughtfully.  "And  how  is  the 
sum  secured  ?" 

"  Chiefly  by  acknowledgments  from  the  bank 
wth  the  indorsement  of  John  Potts,  Presi- 
dent." 

"  What  are  the  other  liabilities?" 

"  He  has  implored  me  to  purchase  for  him  or 
sell  him  some  California  stock.  I  have  reluc- 
tantly consented  to  do  so,"  continued  Frank, 
with  a  sardonic  smile,  "entirely  through  the  re- 
quest of  my  senior,  and  he  has  taken  a  hundred 
shares  at  a  thousand  pounds  each." 

"One  hundred  thousand  pounds,"  said  Louis. 

"I  consented  to  take  his  notes,"  continued 
Frank,  "purely  out  of  regard  to  the  recommenda- 
tions of  my  senior." 

"  Any  thing  else  ?"  asked  Louis. 

"  He  urged  me  to  recommend  him  to  a  good 
broker  who  might  purchase  stock  for  him  in  re- 
liable companies.  I  created  a  broker  and  recom- 
mended him.  He  asked  me  also  confidentially 
to  tell  him  which  stocks  were  best,  so  I  kindly 
advised  him  to  purchase  the  Mexican  and  the 
Guatemala  loan.  I  also  recommended  the 
Venezuela  bonds.  I  threw  all  these  into  the 
market,  and  by  dextrous  manipulation  raised  the 
price  to  3  per  cent,  premium.  He  paid  £103  for 
every  £100.    When  he  wants  to  sell  out,  as  he 


may  one  day  wish  to  do,  he  wtU  be  lucky  if  he 
gets  35  per  cent." 

"  How  much  did  he  buy?" 

"Mexican  loan,  fifty  thousand;  Guatemala, 
fiftv  thousand ;  and  Venezuek  bonds,  fifty  thou- 
sand." 

"  He  is  quite  lavish." 

"  Oh,  quite.  That  makes  it  so  pleasant  to  do 
business  with  him." 

"Did  you  advance  the  money  for  this?" 

"  He  did  not  ask  it.  He  raised  the  money 
somehow,  i)erhaps  from  our  old  advances,  anil 
bought  them  from  the  broker.  The  broker  was 
of  course  myself.  The  beauty  of  all  this  is,  that 
I  send  applicants  for  money,  who  give  their 
notes;  he  gets  money  from  me  and  gives  his 
notes  to  me,  and  then  advances  the  money  to 
these  applicants,  who  bring  it  back  to  me.  It's 
odd,  isn't  it?" 

Louis  smiled. 

"  Has  he  no  bona  fide  debtors  in  his  ovm  coun- 
ty?" 

"Oh  yes,  plenty  of  them;  but  more  than 
half  of  his  advances  have  been  made  to  my 
men." 

"Did  von  hint  any  thing  about  issuing 
notes?" 

"  Oh  yes,  and  the  bait  took  wonderfully.  He 
made  his  bank  a  bank  of  issue  at  once,  and  sent 
out  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds  in  notes. 
I  think  it  was  in  this  way  that  he  got  the  money 
for  all  that  American  stock.  At  any  rate,  it 
helped  him.  As  he  has  only  a  small  supply  of 
gold  in  his  vaults,  yon  may  very  readily  conjec- 
ture his  peculiar  position." 

Louis  was  silent  for  a  time. 

"  You  have  managed  admirably,  Frank,"  said 
he  at  last. 

"Oh,"  rejoined  Frank,  "Potts  is  very  small 
game,  financially.  There  is  no  skill  needed  in 
playing  with  him.  He  is  such  a  clumsy  bungler 
that  he  does  whatever  one  wishes.  There  is  not 
even  excitement.  Whatever  I  tell  him  to  do  he 
does.  Now  if  I  were  anxious  to  crush  the  Roths- 
childs, it  would  be  verj-  different.  There  would 
then  be  a  chance  for  skill." 

"You  have  had  the  chance." 

"I  did  not  wisli  to  ruin  them,"  said  Frank. 
"Too  many  innocent  people  would  have  suf- 
fered. I  only  wished  to  alarm  them.  I  rather 
think,  from  what  I  hear,  that  they  were  a  little 
disturbed  on  that  day  when  they  had  to  pay  four 
millions.  Yet  I  could  have  crushed  them  if  I 
had  chosen,  and  I  managed  things  so  as  to  let 
them  see  this." 

"How?" 

"I  controlled  other  engagements  of  theirs, 
and  on  the  same  day  I  magnanimously  wrote 
them  a  letter,  saying  that  I  would  not  press  for 
payment,  as  their  notes  were  as  good  to  me  as 
money.  Had  I  pressed  they  would  have  gone 
down.  Nothing  cduld  have  saved  them.  But  I 
did  not  wish  that.  The  fact  is  they  have  locked 
up  their  means  very  much,  and  have  been  rather 
careless  of  late.  They  have  learned  a  lesson 
now." 

Louis  relapsed  into  his  reflections,  and  Frank 
began  to  answer  his  letters. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


U7 


CHAPTER  XXXVn. 

THE     "  PROM  ETHEUH." 

It  took  some  time  fur  Langhetti  to  mnke  hia 
preparations  in  London.  Septemlier  came  be- 
fore he  had  completed  them.  To  his  surprise 
these  prrangements  were  much  easier  than  he 
liad  supposed.  People  came  to  him  of  their 
own  accord  before  he  thought  it  possible  that 
they  could  have  heard  of  his  project.  What 
most  surprised  him  was  a  call  from  the  manager 
of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  who  ottered  to  put  it 
into  his  hands  for  n  price  so  low  as  to  sur])risc 
langhetti  more  than  any  thing  else  that  had  oc- 
curred. Of  course  he  accepted  the  otter  grate- 
fully and  eagerly.  Thu  manager  said  that  the 
building  was  on  hi»  hands,  and  he  did  not  wish 
to  use  it  for  the  present,  for  which  reason  he 
would  be  glad  to  turn  it  over  to  him.  lie  re- 
marked also  that  there  was  very  much  stock  in 
the  theatre  that  coidd  be  made  use  of,  for  which 
he  would  charge  nothing  whatever.  Langhetti 
went  to  see  it,  and  found  a  large  nunil)er  of  mag- 
nificently painted  scenes,  which  could  be  used  in 
his  piece.  On  asking  the  manager  how  scenes 
of  this  sort  came  to  be  there,  he  learned  that 
some  one  had  been  representing  the  "'  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Dream,"  or  something  of  that  sort. 

Langhetti's  means  were  very  limited,  and  as 
he  had  risked  every  thing  on  tliis  exfK  riment  he 
was  rejoiced  to  find  events  so  very  greatly  in  his 
favor. 

Another  circumstance  which  was  equally  in  his 
favor,  if  not  more  so,  was  the  kind  consideration 
of  the  London  papers.  'ITiey  announced  his 
forthcoming  work  over  and  over  again.  Some 
of  their  writers  came  to  see  him  so  as  to  get  the 
particulars,  and  what  little  he  told  them  they  de- 
scribed in  the  most  attractive  and  ettective  man- 
ner. 

A  large  number  of  people  presented  themselves 
to  form  his  company,  and  he  also  received  appli- 
cations by  letter  from  many  whose  eminence  and 
fortunes  placed  them  above  the  need  of  any  such 
thing.  It  was  simply  incomprehensible!  to  Lan- 
ghetti, who  thoroughly  understood  the  ways  of 
the  musical  world ;  yet  since  they  ottered  he  was 
only  too  happy  to  accept.  On  having  interviews 
with  these  persons  he  was  amazed  to  find  that 
they  were  one  and  all  totally  indifferent  about 
terms ;  they  all  assured  him  that  they  were  ready 
to  take  any  part  whatever,  and  merely  wished  to 
iissist  in  the  representation  of  a  piece  so  new  and 
so  original  as  his  was  said  to  be.  They  all  named 
a  price  which  was  excessively  low,  and  assured 
him  that  they  did  so  only  for  forms  sake ;  posi- 
tively refusing  to  accept  any  thing  more,  and 
leaving  it  to  Langhetti  either  to  take  them  on 
their  own  terms  or  to  reject  them.  He,  of 
course,  could  not  reject  aid  so  powerful  and  so 
unexpected. 

At  length  he  had  his  rehearsal.  After  various 
trials  he  invited  representatives  of  the  London 
Press  to  be  present  at  the  last.  They  all  came, 
and  all  without  exception  wrote  the  most  glowing 
accounts  for  their  respective  journals. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  he  to  Beatrice. 
"  Every  thir^  has  come  into  my  hands.  I  don't 
understand  it.  It  seems  to  me  exactly  as  if  there 
was  some  powerful,  unseen  hand  assisting  me ; 
some  one  who  secretly  put  every  thing  in  my  I 
way,  who  paid  these  artists  first  and  then  sent ! 


them  to  me,  and  influenced  all  the  journals  in 
my  favor.  I  should  be  sure  of  this  if  it  were  not 
a  more  incredible  thing  than  the  actual  result  it- 
self. As  it  is  I  am  simply  perplexed  and  bewil- 
dered. It  is  a  thing  that  is  without  parallel.  I 
have  a  comjiany  such  as  no  one  l:as  ever  before 
gathered  together  on  one  stage.  I  have  eminent 
prima  donnas  who  are  quite  willing  to  sing  sec- 
ond and  third  parts  without  caring  what  I  pay 
them,  or  whether  I  pay  them  or  not.  I  know 
the  musical  world.  All  I  can  say  is  that  the 
thing  is  unexampled,  and  I  can  not  comprehend 
it.  I  have  tried  to  find  out  from  some  of  them 
what  it  all  means,  but  they  give  me  no  satisfac- 
tion. At  any  rate,  my  Bicinu,  you  will  make 
your  dil/ut  under  the  most  favorable  circum- 
stances. You  saw  how  they  admired  your  voice 
at  the  rehearsal.  The  world  shall  admire  it  still 
more  at  your  first  performance." 

Langhetti  was  puzzled,  and,  as  he  said,  bewil- 
dered, but  he  did  not  slacken  a  single  effort  to 
make  his  opera  successful.  His  exertions  were 
as  unremitting  as  though  he  were  still  struggling 
against  difliculties.  After  nil  that  had  been  done 
for  him  he  knew  very  well  that  ho  was  sure  of  a 
good  house,  yet  he  worked  as  hard  as  though  his 
audience  was  very  uncertain. 

At  length  the  appointed  evening  came.  I>an- 
ghetti  had  certainly  expected  a  good  house  from 
those  happy  accidents  which  had  given  liim  the 
co-o|)eration  of  the  entire  musical  world  and  of 
the  i)ress.  Yet  when  he  looked  out  and  saw  the 
house  that  waited  for  the  rising  of  the  curtain  he 
was  overwhelmed. 

When  he  thus  looked  out  it  was  long  before 
the  time.  A  great  murmur  had  attracted  his 
attention.  He  saw  the  house  crammed  in  every 
part.  All  the  boxes  were  filled.  In  the  pit  was 
a  vast  congregation  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  the 
very  galleries  were  thronged. 

The  wonder  that  had  all  along  filled  him  was 
now  greater  than  ever.  He  well  knew  under 
what  circumstances  even  an  ordinarily  good  house 
is  collected  together.  There  must  either  be  un- 
doubted fame  in  the  prima  donna,  or  else  the 
most  wide-spread  and  comprehensive  efforts  on 
the  part  of  a  skillful  impresario.  His  efforts  had 
been  great,  but  not  such  as  to  insure  any  thing 
like  this.  To  account  for  the  prodigious  crowd 
which  filled  every  part  of  the  large  edifice  was 
simply  impossible. 

He  did  not  attempt  to  account  for  it.  He  ac- 
cepted the  situation,  and  prepared  for  the  jier- 
formance. 

What  sort  of  an  idea  that  audience  may  have 
had  of  the  "  Prometheus '  of  Langhetti  need 
hardly  be  conjectured.  They  had  heard  of  it  aa 
a  novelty.  Thay  had  heard  that  the  company 
was  the  best  ever  collected  at  one  time,  and  that 
the  prima  donna  was  a  prodigy  of  genius.  That 
was  enough  for  them.  They  waited  in  a  state  of 
exp>ectation  which  was  so  high-pitched  that  it 
would  have  proved  disastrous  in  the  extreme  to 
any  piece,'  or  any  finger  who  should  have  proved 
to  be  in  the  slightest  degree  inferior.  Consum- 
mate excellence  alone  in  every  part  could  now 
save  the  piece  from  ruin.  This  Langhetti  felt; 
but  he  was  calm,  for  he  had  confidence  in  his 
work  and  in  his  company.  Most  of  all,  he  had 
confidence  in  Beatrice. 

At  last  the  curtain  rose. 

The  scene  was  such  a  one  as  had  never  before 


148 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


been  r^>rctM!nted.  A  blaze  of  dazzling  liKht  filled 
the  stage,  and  before  it  stood  Hevuii  forms,  repre- 
senting the  Heveii  nrcliangelH.  Thev  begnn  one 
of  the  subliniext  Htruiiis  ever  heard.  Kiich  of 
the.sc  HingerH  lind  in  Hoino  way  won  eminence. 
They  hud  thrown  tlit,ini«elves  into  thi^*  work. 
The  nuiHic  which  had  been  given  to  them  had 
produced  an  exalted  eti'uct  upon  their  own  hearts, 
and  now  they  rendered  forth  that  grand  "Chorus 
of  Angels"  which  those  who  heard  the  "  I'ro- 
methcus"  have  never  forgotten.  The  words  re- 
sembled, in  some  measure,  the  ojicning  song  in 
Go«ithes"  Faust,"  but  the  music  wiis  Lunglietti's. 

The  eflf'ect  of  this  ma;;niHcent  o])ening  wus 
wonderful.  The  audience  sat  spell  -  Injund  — 
hushed  into  stillness  by  those  transcendant  har- 
monies which  seemed  like  the  very  song  of  the 
angels  themselves;  like  that  "new  song'  which 
is  spoken  of  in  Revelation.  The  grandeur  of 
Handel's  stupendous  chords  was  renewed,  and 
every  one  present  felt  its  jiower. 

Then  came  the  second  scene.  IVometheus  lay 
Huftering.  The  ocean  nymphs  were  around  him, 
sympathizing  with  iiis  woes.  The  sufferer  lay 
chained  to  a  bleak  rock  in  the  summit  of  frosty 
Caucasus.  Far  and  wide  extended  an  expanse 
of  ice.  In  the  distance  arose  a  vast  world  of 
snow-covered  |)eaks.  In  front  was  a  mer  de  ylace, 
which  extended  all  along  the  stage. 

Prometheus  addressed  all  nature — "the  divine 
other,  the  swift-winged  winds,  Earth  the  All- 
mother,  and  the  iuHnite  laughter  of  the  ocean 
waves."  The  thoughts  were  those  of  iKschylus, 
expressed  by  the  music  of  Langhetti. 

The  ocean  nymphs  bewailed  him  in  a  song  of 
moumful  sweetness,  whose  indescribable  pathos 
touched  ever)'  heart.  It  was  the  intensity  of  sym- 
pathy— sympathy  so  profoimd  that  it  became  an- 
guish, for  the  heart  that  felt  it  had  identified  it- 
self with  the  heart  of  the  sufferer. 

Tiien  followed  an  extraordinary  strain.  It  was 
the  Vi.ice  of  Universal  Nature,  animate  and  in- 
animate, mourning  over  the  agony  of  the  God  of 
Ix)ve.  In  that  strain  was  heard  the  voice  of 
man,  the  sighing  of  the  winds,  the  moaning  of 
the  sea,  the  murmur  of  the  trees,  the  wail  of  bird 
and  l)east,  all  blending  in  extraordinary  unison, 
and  all  speaking  of  woe. 

And  now  a  third  scene  opened.  It  was  Athene. 
Athene  represented  Wisdom  or  Hnman  Under- 
standing, by  which  the  God  of  Vengeance  is  de- 
throned, and  gives  place  to  the  eternal  rule  of  the 
(jod  of  Love.  To  but  few  of  those  present  could 
tills  idea  of  Langhetti's  be  intelligible.  The  most 
of  them  merely  regarded  the  fable  and  its  music, 
without  looking  for  any  meaning  beneath  the 
surface. 

To  these,  and  to  all,  the  appearance  of  Beatrice 
was  like  a  new  revelation.  She  came  forward 
and  stood  in  the  costume  which  the  Greek  has 
given  to  Athene,  bit  in  her  hand  she  held  the 
olive — her  emblem — instead  of  the  spear.  From 
beneath  her  helmet  her  dark  locks  flowed  down 
and  were  wreathed  in  thick  waves  that  clustered 
heavily  about  her  head. 

Here,  as  Athene,  the  pure  classical  contour  of 
Beatrice's  features  appeared  in  mar\elous  beauty 
— faultless  in  their  perfect  Grecian  mould.  Her 
large,  dark  eyes  looked  with  a  certain  solemn 
meaning  out  upon  the  vast  audience.  Her  whole 
fice  was  refined  and  sublimed  by  the  thought 
that  was  within  her.     In  her  artistic  nature  she 


had  appropriated  thi«  chamcter  to  heraelf  no 
thoroughly,  that,  as  he  stixxl  there,  she  felt  her- 
self to  be  in  reality  all  that  she  represented.  The 
spectators  caught  the  same  feeling  from  her. 
Yet  »o  marvelous  was  her  l)eauty,  so  asKmish- 
ing  was  the  |)crfection  of  her  form  and  feature, 
so  accurate  was  the  living  rejiresentation  of  tho 
ideal  goddess  that  tiie  whole  vast  audience  after 
one  glance  hurst  forth  into  pealing  thunders  of 
spontaneous  and  irresistible  applause. 

Beatrice  had  ojwned  her  mouth  to  l)egin.  but 
as  that  thunder  of  admiration  arose  she  fell  back 
b  pace.  Was  it  the  ajiplause  that  had  overawed 
hor  ? 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  one  spot  at  the  extreme 
right  of  the  pit.  A  face  was  there  which  en- 
chained her.  A  face,  pale,  sad,  mournful,  with 
dark  eyes  fixed  on  hers  in  steadfast  despair. 

Beatrice  faltered  and  fell  back,  but  it  was  not 
at  the  roar  of  a|)|)laiise.  It  was  that  face — the 
one  face  among  three  thousn.iid  before  her,  tho 
one,  the  only  one  that  she  saw.  Ah,  how  in 
that  moment  all  the  jmst  came  rushing  before 
her — the  Indian  Ocean,  the  Malay  pirate,  where 
that  face  first  appeared,  the  Atlantic,  the  ship- 
wreck, the  long  sail  over  the  seas  in  the  boat,  the 
African  isle ! 

Mie  stood  so  long  in  silence  that  the  spectators 
wondered. 

Suddenly  the  face  which  had  so  transfixed  her 
sank  down.     He  was  gone,  or  he  had  hid  him- 
elf.     Was  it  because  he  knew  that  he  was  the 
cause  of  her  silence  ? 

The  face  disappeared,  and  the  spell  was  bro- 
ken. Langhetti  stood  at  the  side-scenes,  watch- 
ing with  deep  agitation  the  silence  of  Beatrice. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  taking  the  desperate 
step  of  going  forward  when  he  saw  that  she  had 
regained  her  composure. 

She  regained  it,  and  moved  a  step  forward 
with  such  calm  serenity  that  no  one  could  have 
suspected  her  of  having  lost  it.  She  began  to 
sing.  In  an  opera  words  are  nothing — music  is 
all  in  all.  It  is  sufficient  if  the  words  express, 
even  in  a  feeble  and  general  way,  the  ideas  which 
breathe  and  bum  in  the  music.  Thus  it  wr.s 
with  the  words  in  the  opening  song  of  Beatrice. 

But  the  music !  What  language  can  describe 
it? 

Upon  this  all  the  richest  stores  of  Langhetti's 
genius  had  been  lavished.  Into  this  all  the  soul 
of  Beatrice  was  thrown  with  sublime  self-forget- 
fulness.  She  ceased  to  be  herself.  Before  the 
audience  she  was  Athene. 

Her  voice,  always  man-eiously  rich  and  full, 
was  now  grander  and  more  capacious  than  ever. 
It  poured  forth  a  full  stream  of  matchless  har- 
mony that  carried  all  the  audience  captive. 
Strong,  soaring,  penetrating,  it  rose  easily  to  the 
highest  notes,  and  flung  them  forth  with  a  lavish, 
and  at  the  same  time  far-reaching  jxjwer  that 
penetrated  every  heart,  and  thrilled  ".11  who  heard 
it.  Roused  to  the  highest  enthusiasm  by  the 
sight  of  that  vast  assemblage,  Beatrice  gave  her- 
self up  to  the  intoxication  of  the  hour.  She 
threw  herself  into  the  spirit  of  the  ])iece ;  she 
took  deep  into  her  heart  the  thought  of  Lan- 
ghetti, and  nttered  it  forth  to  the  listeners  with 
harmonies  that  were  almost  divine — such  har- 
monies as  they  had  never  before  heard. 

There  was  the  silence  of  death  as  she  sang. 
Her  voice  stilled  all  other  sounds.     Each  listen- 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


149 


•'the  appearance   op   BEATRICE   WAS    LIKE    A    NEW    REVELATION." 


er  seemed  almost  afraid  to  breathe.  Some  look- 
ed at  one  another  in  amazement,  but  most  of 
them  sat  motionless,  with  their  heads  stretched 
forward,  nnconsciuus  of  any  thing  except  that 
one  voice. 
At  last  it  ceased.     For  a  momeut  there  was 


a  pause.  Then  there  arose  a  deep,  low  thunder 
of  applause  that  deepened  and  intensified  itself 
every  moment  till  at  last  it  rose  on  high  in  one 
sutilime  outburst,  a  frenzy  of  acclamation,  such 
as  is  heard  but  seldom,  but,  once  heaid,  is  never 
forgotten. 


110 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


Befltric«  mm  Wlii  out.  R(te  came,  and  re- 
tireii.  Again  Hd  Mtin  ithe  wom  called.  Fluw- 
•n  were  iihuwered  (Town  in  henfM  at  her  feet. 
The  nccluniutioiiH  went  on,  and  only  feuited 
tlin)ugh  the  comtciouHiieMM  that  more  wim  yet  to 
come.  The  piece  went  on.  It  wait  one  long 
triumph.  At  la«t  it  ended.  Ueatrico  had  been 
loaded  with  honon.  I^nghetti  waa  called  out 
and  welcomeil  with  almost  eipial  enthutiasni. 
Hi:*  even  tilled  with  tcarii  of  joy  m  he  received 
thJH  well-merited  tribute  to  hist  gcniu8.  He  and 
Beatrice  ittood  on  the  stage  at  the  name  time. 
Flower*  were  flung  at  him.  He  took  them  nnd 
laid  them  at  the  feet  of  Hbatrice. 

At  thin  a  louder  roar  of  Hccliimntion  arose.  It 
increuHed  and  dcefiened,  nnd  the  two  who  ittood 
theie  felt  overwhelmed  by  the  tremendoua  ap- 
plause. 

So  ended  the  flrst  representation  of  the  "  Pro- 
metheus!" 


CHAITER  XXXVIII. 

THE    SKCKET. 

The  triumph  of  Beatrice  continued.  The 
doily  iiajjers  were  filled  with  accounts  of  the  new 
linger.  She  had  come  suddenly  Inifore  them, 
and  had  at  one  bound  reached  the  highest  emi- 
nence. She  had  eclipsed  all  the  (x^pulur  favor- 
ites. Her  sublime  strains,  her  glorious  enthusi- 
asm, her  marvelous  voice,  her  jierfect  beauty,  all 
kindled  the  popular  heart.  The  |>eople  forgave 
her  for  not  having  an  Italian  name,  since  she 
had  one  which  was  so  aristocratic.  Her  whole 
ap])earance  showed  that  she  was  something  very 
dirterent  from  the  common  order  of  artistes,  as 
diHerent,  in  fact,  as  tlie  "Prometheus"  was 
fiom  the  common  order  of  operas.  For  here  in 
the ' '  Prometheus'  there  were  no  endless  iterations 
of  the  one  theme  of  love,  no  jwrpetual  rejjetitions 
of  the  same  rhyme  of  amore  and  cuore,  or  amor 
and  caor  ;  but  rather  the  effort  of  the  soul  after 
Bublimer  mysteries.  The  '  *  Prometheus"  sought 
to  solve  the  problem.of  life  nnd  of  human  suffer- 
ing. Its  divine  sentiments  brought  hope  and 
consolation.  The  great  singer  rose  to  the  alti- 
tude of  a  sibyl;  she  uttered  inspirations;  she 
herself  was  inspired. 

As  she  stood  with  her  grand  Grecian  beauty, 
her  pure  classic  features,  she  looked  as  beautiful 
as  a  statue,  and  as  ideal  and  passionless.  In 
one  sense  she  could  never  be  a  po)>ular  favorite. 
She  had  no  archness  or  coquetry  like  some,  no 
voluptuousness  like  others,  no  arts  to  win  ap- 
plause like  others.  Still  she  stood  up  and  sang 
as  one  who  believed  that  this  was  the  highest 
mission  of  humanity,  to  utter  divine  truth  to  hu- 
man ears.  She  sang  loftily,  thrillingly,  as  an 
angel  might  sing,  and  those  who  saw  her  re- 
vered her  while  they  listened. 

And  thus  it  was  that  the  fame  of  this  new  sing- 
er went  quickly  through  England,  and  foreign 
journals  spoke  of  it  half-wonderingly,  hnlf-cyn- 
ically,  as  usual ;  for  Continentals  never  have  any 
faith  in  English  art,  or  in  tlie  power  which  any 
E'lglishman  may  have  to  interpret  art.  The 
leading  French  journals  conjectured  that  the 
"  Prometheuft"  was  of  a  religious  character,  and 
therefore  Puritanical ;  and  consequently  for  that 
reason  was  popular.  They  amused  themselves 
with  the  idea  of  a  Puritanical  opera,  declared 


that  the  F.ngllah  wl«h%d  to  Proteitantize  muair, 
and  miggcsted  "Calvin"  or  "The  SablMth"  at 
g<H)d  Huiijects  for  thi«  now  and  entirely  Engliah 
class  of  o|i«rai<. 

Hut  soon  the  corres])ondentM  of  some  of  the 
Continental  papem  Iwgan  to  write  gh)wing  ac- 
counts of  the  piece,  and  to  put  Langlietti  in  the 
same  class  with  Handel.  He  was  an  Italian, 
lh«v  said,  but  in  this  case  he  united  Italian  grace 
and  versatility  with  (iennan  solemnity  and  mel- 
ancholv.  Thoy  declared  that  he  -vhs  ihe  great- 
est of  living  composers,  and  promised  for  him  a 
great  reputation. 

Night  after  night  the  rcpreKcutntion  of  the  "Pro- 
metheus" went  on  with  uiuliniiiiished  success; 
and  with  a  larger  and  )>rofoundcr  appreciation  of 
its  meaning  among  the  better  class  of  minds. 
I^anghctti  liegan  to  show  a  stronger  and  fuller 
confidence  in  the  success  of  his  piece  than  he  had 
yet  dared  to  evince.  Yet  now  its  success  seemed 
assured.     What  more  could  he  wish  ? 

September  came  on,  and  every  succeeding 
night  only  nuido  the  success  more  marked.  One 
day  J^tiiglictti  was  with  Beatrice  at  tlie  theatre, 
and  they  wore  talking  of  many  things.  There 
seemed  to  be  something  on  his  mind,  for  he  sfwke 
in  an  abstracted  manner.  Beatrice  noticed  this 
at  last,  and  mentioned  it. 

He  was  at  first  very  mysterious.  "It  must 
be  that  secret  of  yours  which  you  will  not  tell 
me,"  said  she.  "You  said  once  before  that  it 
was  connected  with  me,  nnd  that  you  would  tell 
it  to  me  when  the  time  came.  Has  not  the  time 
come  yet  ?" 

"Not  yet,"  answered  Langhctti. 

"When  will  it  come?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"And  will  you  keep  it  secret  always?" 

"Perhaps  not." 

"You  speak  undecidedly." 

"I  am  undecided." 

"Why  not  decide  now  to  tell  it?"  pleaded 
Beatrice.  "  Why  should  I  not  know  it?  Sure- 
ly I  have  gone  through  enough  suffering  to  bear 
this,  even  if  it  bring  something  additional." 

I^anghetti  looked  at  her  long  and  doubtfulljr. 

"You  hesitate,"  said  she. 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"It  is  of  too  much  importance." 

"That  is  all  the  more  reason  why  I  should 
know  it.     Would  it  crush  me  if  I  knew  it?' 

"I  don't  know.     It  might." 

"Then  let  me  be  crushed." 

Langhetti  sighe<l. 

"Is  it  something  that  you  know  for  certain,- 
or  is  it  only  conjecture  ?" 

"Neither,"  said  he,  "but  half-way  between 
the  two." 

Beatrice  looked  earnestly  at  him  for  some 
time.  Then  she  put  her  head  nearer  to  his  and 
spoke  in  a  solemn  whisper. 

"  It  is  al)out  my  mother  1 ' 

Langhetti  looked  at  her  with  a  startled  ex- 
pression. 

"Is  it  not?" 

He  bowed  his  head. 

"  It  is — it  is.  And  if  so,  I  implore — I  con- 
jure you  to  tell  me.  Look — I  am  calm.  Think 
— I  am  strong.  I  am  not  one  who  can  be  cast 
down  merely  by  bad  news." 

"  I  may  tell  you  soon." 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


151 


•    •*8ay  you  will." 

"  I  will,"  said  Langhetti,  after  a  itruggl*. 

"When?" 

"Soon." 

••  Why  not  to-morrow  ?" 

"ThHt  it  too  iHxin ;  you  are  impatient." 

"Of  cotirHe  I  nra,"  Huid  Heatrice.  "Ought  I 
not  to  bo  so  ?  Have  you  not  Maul  that  thiii  con- 
cerns me  ?  and  i^  not  all  my  inuigination  aroused 
in  the  endeavor  to  fonn  a  conjecture  as  to  what 
it  may  be  ?" 

She  8[K)ke  so  earnestly  that  I.anKhetti  was 
moved,  and  looked  still  more  undecided. 

"  When  will  you  tell  me  ?" 

"Soon,  perhaps,*  be  re|>licd,  with  some  hesi- 
tation. 

"  Why  not  now  ?" 

"Oh  no,  I  must  assure  myself  first  about  some 
things." 

"  To-morrow,  then." 

He  hesitated. 

"  Yes,"  said  she ;  "  it  mn.'ft  be  to-morrow.  If 
you  do  not,  I  shall  think  tiiitt  you  have  little  or 
nocontidence  in  me.  i  siiall  ex|iect  it  to-morrow. " 

Langhetti  was  silent. 

"I  shall  expect  it  to-morrow,"  repeated  Bea- 
trice. 

Langhetti  still  continued  silent. 

"Oh,  very  well ;  lilencc  gives  consent  I"  said 
she,  in  a  livelv  tc    .. 

"  I  have  not    .msented." 

"  Yes  you  have,  by  your  silence." 

"  I  was  deliberating." 

"  I  asked  you  twice,  and  y-ni  did  not  refuse; 
surely  that  means  consent." 

"  I  d(j  not  say  so,"  said  Langhetti,  earnestly. 

"But  you  will  do  so." 

"  Do  not  be  so  certain." 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  certain ;  and  if  you  do  not  tell 
me  you  will  very  deeply  disappoint  nie." 

"  In  telling  you  I  could  only  give  you  sorrow." 

"Sorrow  or  joy,  whatever  it  is,  I  can  bear  it 
so  long  as  I  know  this.  You  will  not  suppose 
that  I  am  actuated  by  simple  feminine  curiosity. 
You  know  me  letter.  This  secret  is  one  which 
subjects  me  to  the  tortures  of  suspense,  and  I  am 
anxious  to  have  them  removed." 

"The  removal  will  be  worse  than  the  sus- 
pense.' 

"That  is  impossible." 

"  You  would  not  say  so  if  you  knew  what  it 
was." 

"Tell  me,  then." 

"That  is  what  I  fear  to  do." 

"iJo  you  fear  for  me,  or  for  some  other  per- 
son?" 

"Only  for  you." 

"  Do  not  fear  for  me,  then,  I  beseech  you ;  for 
it  is  not  only  my  desire,  but  ly  prayer,  that  I 
may  know  this." 

Langhetti  seemed  to  be  in  deep  perplexity. 
Whate\  er  this  secret  was  with  which  he  was  so 
troubled  he  seemed  afraid  to  tell  it  to  Beatrice, 
either  f.om  fear  that  it  might  not  be  any  thing  in 
itself  or  result  in  any  thing,  or,  as  seemed  more 
probal)le,  lest  it  might  too  greatly  att'ect  her. 
This  last  was  the  motive  which  appeared  to  in- 
fluence him  most  strongly.  Jn  either  case,  the 
secret  of  which  he  spoke  must  have  been  one  of 
a  highly  important  character,  affecting  most  deep- 
ly the  life  and  fortunes  of  Beatrice  herself.  Mie 
had  foiined  her  own  ideas  and  her  own  expecta- 


tions almut  it,  and  this  mndo  her  all  the  more 
urgent,  und  e\en  |>eremptory,  in  her  demand. 
In  fact,  things  had  come  to  such  a  point  that 
langhetti  found  himself  no  h>nger  able  to  refuse, 
and  now  only  «ought  how  to  postpone  his  di- 
vulgence  of  h's  secret. 

Yet  even  this  Beatrice  comliated,  and  w  >uld 
listen  to  no  later  |>oHt|)onement  than  the  morrow. 

At  length,  after  long  resistance  to  her  demand, 
lianghetti  assetited,  and  promised  on  the  morrow 
to  tell  her  what  it  was  that  he  had  meant  by  Ins 
secret. 

For,  as  she  gathered  from  his  conversatiyn,  it 
was  something  that  he  had  first  discovered  in 
I  long  Kong,  and  had  never  since  forgotten,  but 
had  tried  to  make  it  certain.  His  efforts  had 
thus  far  been  useless,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  tell 
her  till  he  could  bring  proof.  Tiiat  proof,  un- 
fortunately, he  was  not  able  to  find,  and  he  coidd 
only  tell  his  conjectures. 

It  was  for  these,  then,  that  Beatrice  waited  in 
anxious  expectation. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE   CAB. 

That  evening  Beatrice's  leifomiance  had  been 
greeted  with  louder  applause  than  usual,  and, 
what  was  more  gratifying  to  one  like  her,  the  ef- 
fective j)as.sages  had  l)een  listened  to  with  a  still- 
ness which  spoke  more  loudly  than  the  loudest 
applau.se  of  the  deep  interest  of  the  audience. 

Langlietti  had  almost  always  driven  home  with 
her,  but  on  this  occasion  he  had  excused  himself 
on  account  of  some  business  in  ihe  theatre  which 
rc(|uired  liis  attention. 

On  going  out  Beatrice  could  not  find  the  cab- 
man whom  she  had  employed.  After  looking 
around  for  him  a  long  time  she  found  that  he 
had  gone.  She  was  surjjrised  and  vexed.  At 
the  same  time  she  could  not  account  for  this,  but 
thought  that  ])erhaps  he  had  been  drinking  and 
had  forgotten  all  aliout  her.  On  making  this 
discovery  she  was  on  the  point  of  going  back  and 
telling  Langhetti,  but  a  cabman  followed  her 
[)ersistently,  promising  to  take  her  wherever  she 
wished,  and  she  thought  that  it  v\-ould  be  foolif.h 
to  trouble  Langhetti  about  so  small  a  matter; 
so  that  at  length  she  decided  to  employ  the  per- 
severing cabman,  thinking  that  he  could  take  her 
to  her  lodgings  as  well  as  any  body  else. 

The  cabman  started  off  at  a  rapid  pace,  and 
w  jnt  on  through  street  after  street,  while  Bea- 
trice sat  thinking  of  the  evening's  performance. 

At  last  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  l)een  a 
much  longer  time  than  usual,  and  she  began  to 
fear  that  the  cabman  had  lost  his  way.  She 
l((oked  out.  They  were  going  along  the  upper 
part  of  Oxford  Street,  a  great  distance  from 
where  she  lived.  She  instantly  tried  to  draw 
down  the  window  so  as  to  attract  the  cabman's 
attention,  but  could  not  move  it.  She  tried  the 
other,  but  all  were  fast  and  would  not  stir.  Siie 
rapped  at  the  glass  to  make  him  hear,  but  he 
took  no  notice.  Then  she  tried  to  open  the 
door,  but  could  not  do  so  from  the  inside. 

She  sat  down  and  thought.  What  could  be 
the  meaning  of  this  ?  They  were  now  going  at 
a  much  faster  rate  than  is  common  in  the  streets 
of  London,  but  where  she  was  going  she  could 
not  conjecture.  -.         » 


ISS 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


Slje  was  not  afraid.  Her  chief  feeling  was  one 
of  indignation.  Either  tiie  cabman  was  drunk 
— or  what  'i  Could  lie  have  l)een  hired  to  carry 
her  off  to  her  enemie?*  ?     Was  she  betrayed  ? 

This  thought  flashed  like  lightning  through 
her  mind. 

She  was  not  one  who  would  sink  down  into  in- 
action at  the  sudden  onset  of  terror.  Her  chief 
feeling  now  was  one  of  indignation  at  the  audaci- 
ty of  such  an  attempt.  Obeying  the  first  impulse 
that  seized  her,  she  took  the  solid  roll  of  music 
which  she  carried  with  her  and  dashed  it  against 
the  front  window  so  violently  that  she  broke  it 
in  pieces.  Then  she  caught  the  driver  by  the 
sleeve  and  ordered  him  to  stop. 

"All  right,"  said  the  driver,  and,  turning  a 
corner,  he  whipped  up  his  horses,  and  they  gal- 
loped on  faster  than  ever. 

"if  you  don't  stop  111  call  for  help!"  cried 
Beatrice. 

The  driver's  only  answer  was  a  fresh  applica- 
tion of  the  whip. 

The  street  up  which  they  turned  was  narrow, 
and  as  it  had  only  dwelling-houses  it  was  not  so 
brightly  lighted  as  Oxford  Street.  There  were 
but  few  foot-passengers  on  the  sidewalk.  As  it 
was  now  about  midnight,  most  of  the  lights  were 
out,  and  the  ga? -lamps  were  the  chief  means  of 
illumination. 

Yet  there  was  a  chance  that  the  police  might 
save  her.  With  this  hope  she  dashed  her  music 
scroll  against  the  windows  on  each  side  of  the 
cab  and  shivered  them  to  atoms,  calling  at  the  \ 
toj)  of  her  voice  for  help.  The  swift  rush  of  the  j 
cab  and  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  shouting 
for  aid  aroused  the  police.  They  started  for>vard. 
But  the  horses  were  rushing  so  swiftly  that  no 
one  dared  to  touch  them.  The  driver  seemed  to 
them  to  have  lost  control.  They  thought  that 
the  horses  were  nmning  away,  and  that  those 
within  the  cab  were  frightened. 

Away  they  went  through  street  after  street, 
and  Beatrice  never  ceased  to  call.  The  excite- 
ment which  was  created  by  the  runaway  horses 
did  not  abate,  and  at  length  when  the  driver 
stopped  a  policeman  hurried  up. 

'riie  house  before  which  the  cab  stopped  was  a 
plain  two-story  one,  in  a  quiet-looking  street.  A 
light  shone  from  the  front-parlor  window.  As 
the  cab  drew  up  the  door  opened  and  a  man 
came  out. 

Beatrice  saw  the  policeman. 

"  11^1]) !"  she  cried ;  "  I  implore  help.  This 
tvretch  is  carrying  me  away." 

"  What's  this?  '  growled  the  policeman. 

At  this  the  man  that  had  come  out  of  the 
house  hurried  forward. 

"Have  you  found  her?"  exclaimed  a  well- 
known  voice.  "  Oh,  my  child  I  How  could  you 
leave  your  father's  roof!" 

It  was  John  Potts. 

Beatrice  was  silent  for  a  moment  in  utter 
amazement.  Yet  she  made  a  violent  effort 
against  her  despair. 

"  You  have  no  control  over  me,"  said  she,  bit- 
terly. "I  am  of  age.  And  you, '  said  she  to 
the  policeman,  "I  demand  your  help.  I  put 
myself  under  j'our  protection,  and  order  you 
cither  to  take  that  man  in  charge  or  to  let  me 
go  to  mv  home." 

' '  ( )h,"  my  daughter !"  cried  Potts.  ' '  Will  you 
still  be  relentless  ?" 


"Help  me !"  cried  Beatrice,  and  she  opened 
the  cab-door. 

"  The  policeman  can  do  nothing,"  said  Potts. 
"  You  are  not  of  age.  He  will  not  dare  to  take 
you  from  me." 

"I  implore  you,"  cried  Beatrice,  "save  me 
from  this  man.  Take  me  to  the  police-statica — 
any  where  rather  than  leave  me  here !" 

"You  can  not,"  said  Potts  to  the  bewildered 
policeman.  "Listen.  She  is  my  daughter  and 
uyder  age.  She  ran  away  with  a  strolling  Italian 
\  agabond,  with  whom  she  is  leading  an  improper 
Hfe.     I  have  got  her  back." 

"  It's  false !"  cried  Beatrice,  vehemently.  "  I 
fled  from  this  man's  house  because  I  feared  his 
violence. " 

"  That  is  an  idle  story,"  said  Potts. 

"Save  me!"  '~ried  Beatrice. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do — I  suppose  I've  got 
to  take  you  to  the  station,  at  any  rate,"  said  the 
policeman,  hesitatingly. 

' '  Well, "  said  Potts" to  Beatrice,  "if  yon  do  go 
to  the  station-house  you'll  have  to  be  handed  back 
tome.     You  are  under  age." 

"  It's  false !"  cried  Beatrice.     "  I  am  twenty." 

"  No,  you  are  not  more  than  seventeen." 

"Langhetti  can  prove  that  I  am  twenty." 

"How?  I  have  documents,  and  a  father's 
word  will  be  believed  before  a  paramour's." 

This  taunt  stung  Beatrice  to  the  soul. 

"As  to  your  charge  about  my  cruelty  I  can 
prove  to  the  world  that  you  lived  in  splendor  in 
Brandon  Hall.  Every  one  of  the  servants  can 
testify  to  this.  Your  morose  disposition  made 
you  keep  by  yourself.  You  always  treated  your 
father  with  indifference,  and  finally  ran  away 
with  a  man  who  unfortunately  had  won  your  af- 
fections in  Hong  Kong." 

"You  well  know  the  reason  why  I  left  your 
roof,"  replied  Beatrice,  with  calm  and  severe  dig- 
nity. "  Your  foul  aspersions  upon  my  character 
are  unworthy  of  notice. " 

"And  what  shall  I  say  about  your  aspersions 
on  my  character?"  cried  Potts,  in  a  loud,  ruJe 
voice,  hoping  by  a  sort  of  vulgar  self-assertion 
to  brow-beat  Beatrice.  "Do  you  remember  ti'e 
names  you  called  me  and  your  threats  against 
me  ?  When  all  this  is  brought  out  in  the  jwlice 
court,  they  will  see  what  kind  of  a  daughter  you 
have  been." 

"You  will  be  the  last  one  who  will  dare  to 
let  it  be  brought  into  a  police  court." 

"  And  why  ?  Those  absurd  charges  of  yours 
are  worthless.  Have  you  any  proof?"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  sneer,  "or  has  vour  paramour 
any?" 

"Take  me  away,"  said  Beatrice  to  the  police- 
man. 

"Wait!"  exclaimed  Potts;  "you  are  going, 
and  I  will  go  to  reclaim  you.  The  law  will  give 
you  back  to  me ;  for  I  will  prove  that  you  are 
under  age,  and  I  have  never  treated  you  with 
any  thing  except  kindness.  Now  the  law  can  do 
nothing  since  you  are  mine.  But  as  you  are  so 
young  and  inexperienced  I'll  tell  you  what  will 
happen. 

"The  newspapers,"  he  continued,  after  a 
pause,  "will  be  full  of  your  story.  They  will 
print  what  I  shall  prove  to  be  true — that  you  hail 
an  intractable  disposition — that  you  had  formed 
a  guilty  attachment  for  a  drum-mnjor  at  Hong 
Kong — that  you  ran  away  with  him,  lived  for  a 


■}'■      '■; 


CORD  AND  CRE'  .<£. 


'•OH,    MY    daughter!"    CRIED    POTTS,    "  WILL    YOU    STILL    BE    RELENTLESS?" 


while  at  Holby,  and  then  went  with  your  para- 
mour to  London.  If  you  had  only  married  him 
you  would  have  been  out  of  my  power ;  but  you 
don't  pretend  to  be  married.  You  don't  call 
yourself  Langhetti,  but  have  taken  another 
name,  which  the  sharp  newspaper  reporters  will 
hint  was  given  you  by  some  other  one  of  your 
numerous  favorites.  They  will  declare  that  you 
love  everj-  man  but  your  own  father ;  and  you — 
you  who  played  the  goddess  on  the  stage  and 
sang  about  Truth  and  Religion  will  be  known 
all  over  England  and  all  over  Europe  too  as  the 
vilest  of  the  vile. ' 

At  this  tremendous  menace  Beatrice's  resolu- 
tion wa<  shattert^  to  pieces.  That  this  would 
be  80  she  well  knew.    To  escape  from  Potts  was 


to  have  herself  made  infamous  publicly  under  the 
sanction  of  the  law,  and  then,  by  that  same  law 
to  be  handed  back  to  him.  At  least  whether  it 
was  so  or  not,  she  thought  so.  There  was  no 
help — no  friend. 

"Go,"  said  Potts;  "leave  me  now  and  you 
become  covered  with  infamy.  Who  would  be- 
lieve your  story  ?" 

Beatrice  was  silent,  her  slender  frame  was 
rent  by  emotion. 

"O  Gedl"  she  groaned — but  in  her  deep 
despair  she  could  not  find  thoughts  even  for 
prayers. 

"You  may  go,  policeman,"  said  Potts;  "my 
daughter  will  come  with  me." 

"  Faith  and  I'm  glad !    It's  the  best  thing  for 


154 


COBD  AND  CKEESE. 


her ;"  and  the  policeman,  much  relieved,  returned 
to  hi?  beat. 

"  Some  of  you  '11  have  to  pay  for  them  winders," 
said  the  cabman. 

"All  right,"  answered  Potts,  quietly. 

*'  There  is  your  home  for  to-night,  at  any  rate," 
said  Potts,  pointing  to  the  house.  ' '  I  don't  think 
you  have  any  chance  left.    You  had  better  go  in. " 

His  tone  was  one  full  of  bitter  taunt.  [Scarce 
Mnscious,  wth  her  brain  reeling,  and  her  limbs 
trembling,  Beatrice  entered  the  house. 


Chapter  xl. 

DISCOVERIES. 

The  next  morning  after  Beatrice's  last  per- 
formance Langhetti  determined  to  fulfill  his 
promise  and  tell  her  that  secret  which  she  had 
been  so  anxious  to  know.  On  entering  into  his 
parlor  he  saw  a  letter  lying  on  rhe  table  addressed 
to  him.  It  bore  no  postage  stamp,  or  post-oflSce 
mark. 

He  opened  it  and  read  the  following : 

"London,  Si^tember  5,  ISW. 
"SiGXORE, — Cigole,  the  betrayer  and  intend- 
ed assassin  of  your  late  father,  is  now  in  London. 
You  can  find  out  about  him  by  inquiring  of  Gio- 
vanni Cavallo,  1  (>  Red  Lion  Street.  As  a  traitor 
to  the  Carbonari,  you  will  know  that  it  is  your 
duty  to  punish  him,  even  if  your  filial  piety  is  not 
strong  enough  to  avenge  a  father's  wrongs. 

"Cakbonaro." 

Langhetti  read  this  several  times.  Then  he 
called  for  his  landlord. 

' '  Who  left  this  letter  ?"  he  asked. 

"A  young  man."  _" 

"  Do  vou  know  his  name  ?"      ... 

"No." 

"What  did  he  look  like?" 

"  He  looked  like  a  counting-house  clerk  more 
than  any  thing." 

"When  was  it  left?"    * 

"About  six  o'clock  this  morning." 

Langhetti  read  it  over  ami  over.  I'he  news 
that  it  contained  filled  his  mind.  It  was  not  yet 
ten  o'clock.  He  would  not  take  any  breakfast, 
but  went  out  at  once,  jumped  into  a  cab,  and 
drove  off"  to  Red  Lion  Street. 

Giovanni  Cavallo"s  otfice  was  in  a  low,  dingy 
building,  with  a  dark,  narrow"  doonvay.  It  was 
one  of  those  numerous  establishments  conducted 
and  supported  by  foreigners  whose  particular  busi- 
ness it  is  not  easy  to  conjecture.  The  building  was 
full  of  offices,  but  this  was  on  the  ground-floor. 

Langhetti  entered,  and  found  the  interior  as 
dingy  as  the  exterior.  There  was  a  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  Beyond  this  was  a  door 
which  opened  into  a  back-room. 

Only  one  person  was  here — a  small,  bright- 
eyed  man,  with  thick  Vandyke  lieard  and  sinewy 
though  small  frame.  Langhetti  took  off  his  hat 
and  bowed. 

"I  wish  to  see  Signore  Cavallo,"  said  he,  in 
Italian.  « 

"I  am  Signore  Cavallo,"  answered  the  otiier, 
blandly. 

Langhetti  made  a  y^cnliar  motion  with  Iii<  laft 
.arm.  The  keen  eye  of  the  oMier  noticed  it  in  an 
instant.     He  returned  a  gesture  of  a  similar  char- 


acter. Langhetti  and  he  then  exchanged  some 
more  secret  signs.  At  last  Langhetti  made  one 
which  caused  the  other  to  start,  and  to  bow  with 
deep  respect. 

"I  did  not  know,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  that  any  of  the  Interior  Council  ever  came  to 

London But  come  in  here,"  and  he  led  the 

way  into  the  inner  room,  the  door  of  which  he 
locked  very  mysteriously. 

A  long  conference  followed,  the  details  of  which 
would  only  be  tedious.   At  the  close  Cavallo  said, 

"There  is  some  life  in  us  yet,  and  what  life 
we  have  left  shall  be  spent  in  trapping  that  mis- 
creant. Italy  shall  be  avenged  on  one  of  her 
traitors,  at  any  rate." 

"You  will  ^vrite  as  I  told  you,  and  let  me 
know?" 

"Most  faithfully." 

Langhetti  departed,  satisfied  with  the  result  of 
this  inteiTiew.  What  surprised  him  most  was 
the  letter.  The  wiiter  must  have  been  one  who 
had  been  acquainted  with  his  past  Ufe.  He  was 
amazed  to  find  any  one  denouncing  Cigole  to 
him,  but  finall}'  concluded  that  it  must  be  some 
old  Carbonaro,  exiled  through  the  afflictions  which 
had  befallen  that  famous  society,  and  cherishing 
in  his  exile  the  bitter  resentment  which  only  ex- 
iles can  feel. 

Cavallo  himself  had  known  Cigole  for  years, 
but  had  no  idea  whatever  of  his  early  career. 
Cigole  had  no  suspicion  that  Cavallo  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  Carbonari.  His  firm  were  gen- 
eral agents,  who  did  business  of  a  miscellaneous 
character,  now  commission,  now  banking,  and 
now  shipping ;  and  in  various  ways  they  had  had 
dealings  with  this  man,  and  kept  up  an  irregulai- 
correspondence  with  him. 

This  letter  had  excited  afresh  within  his  ardent 
and  impetuous  nature  all  the  remembrances  of 
early  wrongs.  Gentle  though  he  was,  and  pure 
in  heart,  and  elevated  in  all  his  aspirations,  he 
yet  was  in  all  respects  a  true  child  of  the  South, 
and  his  passionate  nature  was  roused  to  a  storm 
by  this  prospect  of  just  retaliation.  All  the  lofty 
doctrines  with  which  he  might  console  others 
were  of  no  avail  here  in  giving  him  calm.  He 
had  never  voluntarily  j)ursued  Cigole ;  but  now, 
since  this  villain  had  been  presented  to  him,  he 
could  not  turn  aside  from  what  he  considered  the 
holy  duty  of  avenging  a  father's  wrongs. 

He  saw  that  for  tl'e  present  every  thing  would 
have  to  give  way  to  this.  He  determined  at  once  to 
suspend  the  representation  of  the  "Prometheus," 
even  though  it  was  at  the  height  of  its  popularity 
and  in  the  full  tide  of  its  success.  He  deteimined 
to  send  Beatrice  under  his  sister's  care,  and  to 
devote  himself  now  altogether  to  the  pursuit  of 
Cigole,  even  if  he  had  to  follow  him  to  the  world's 
end.  The  search  after  him  might  not  be  long 
after  all,  for  Cavallo  felt  sanguine  of  speedy  suc- 
ce.ss,  and  assured  him  that  the  traitor  was  in  his 
power,  and  that  the  Carbonari  in  London  were 
8ufl[iciently  numerous  to  seize  him  and  send  him 
to  whatever  punishment  might  be  deemed  most 
fitting. 

With  such  plans  and  purposes  Langhetti  went 
to  visit  Beatrice,  wondering  how  she  would  re- 
ceive the  intelligence  of  his  new  purpose. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  ha 
reiched  her  lodgings.  On  ^oing  up  ho  rni^ped. 
A  senant  came,  and  on  seeing  him  looked  tright- 
ened. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


m 


■  WHAT    LIFK    WE    HAVE    LEFT   SHALL    BE   SPENT    IK    TRAPPING   THAT   MISCREANT. 


"  Is  Miss  Despard  in  ?" 

Tlie  senant  said  nothing,  but  ran  off.  Lan- 
phetti  stood  waiting  in  suqjrise ;  but  in  a  short 
time  the  landlady  came.  She  had  a  troubled 
look,  and  did  not  even  return  his  salutation. 

'•Is  Miss  Despard  in?" 

"  She  is  not  here,  Sir." 

"Not  here!" 

"No,  Sir.  I'm  frightened.  There  was  a  man 
here  early  this  morning,  too." 

"  A  man  here.     What  for?"' 

"  Why,  to  ask  after  her." 

"And  did  he  see  her?" 

"."he  wasn't  here." 

"  Wasn't  here !     What  do  you  mean  V" 


"She  didn't  come  home  at  all  last  night.  I 
waited  up  for  her  till  four." 

"  Didn't  come  home  1"  cried  Langhetti,  as  an 
awful  fear  came  over  him. 

"No,  Sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  she  didn't  come 
home  at  her  usual  hour  ?" 

"  No,  Sir — not  at  all ;  and  as  I  was  saying,  I 
sat  up  nearly  all  night." 

"  Heavens  !"  cried  Langhetti,  in  bewilderment. 
"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  But  take  me  to 
her  room.     Lei  me  see  with  my  own  eyes." 

The  landlady  led  the  way  up,  and  Langhetti 
followed  anxiously.  The  rooms  were  empty. 
Every  thing  remained  just  as  she  had  left  it.    Her 


IM 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


mnsic  was  lying  loosely  aronnd.  The  landlady 
bold  that  she  had  touclied  nothing. 

Langhetti  askad  about  the  man  who  had  called 
in  the  morning.  The  landlady  could  tell  no- 
thing about  him,  except  that  he  was  a  gentleman 
with  dark  hair,  and  very  stem  eyes  that  terrified 
her.  He  seemed  to  be  very  angry  or  very  ter- 
rible in  some  way  about  Beatrice. 

Who  could  this  be  ?  thought  Langhetti.  The 
landlady  did  not  know  his  name.  Some  one  was 
certainly  interesting  himself  ver\-  singidarly  about 
Cigole,  and  some  one  else,  or  else  the  same  per- 
son, was  very  much  interested  about  Beatrice. 
For  a  moment  he  thought  it  might  be  Despard. 
This,  however,  did  not  seem  probable,  as  Des- 
pard would  have  written  him  if  he  were  coming 
to  town. 

Deeply  perplexed,  and  almost  in  despair,  Lan- 
ghetti left  the  house  and  drove  homo,  thinking  on 
the  way  what  ought  to  be  done.  He  thought  he 
would  wait  till  evening,  and  perhaps  she  would 
appear.  He  did  thus  wait,  and  in  a  fever  of  ex- 
citement and  suspense,  but  on  going  to  the  lodg- 
ing-house again  there  was  nothing  more  known 
about  her. 

Leaving  this  he  drove  to  the  police-office. 
It  seemed  to  him  now  that  she  must  have  been 
fonUy  dealt  with  in  some  way.  He  could  think 
of  no  one  but  Fotts ;  yet  how  Potts  could  man- 
age it  was  a  mystery.  That  mystery  he  himself 
could  not  hope  to  unravel.  The  police  might. 
With  that  confidence  in  the  police  which  is  com- 
mon to  all  Continentals  he  went  and  made  kno^vn 
his  troubles.  The  officials  at  once  promised  to 
make  inquiries,  and  told  him  to  call  on  the  fol- 
lowing evening.    • 

The  next  evening  he  went  there.  The  police- 
man was  present  who  had  been  at  the  place  when 
Potts  met  Beatrice.  He  told  the  whole  story — 
the  horses  running  furiously,  the  screams  from 
the  cab,  and  the  appeal  of  Beatrice  for  help,  to- 
gether with  her  final  acquiescence  in  the  will  of 
her  father. 

Langhetti  was  over^vhelmed.  The  officials 
evidently  believed  that  Potts  was  an  injured  fa- 
ther, and  showed  some  coldness  to  Langhetti. 

"  He  is  her  father ;  what  better  could  she  do  ?"' 
asked  ont 

"Any  thi^g would  be  better,"  said  Langhetti, 
mournfully.  "  He  is  a  villain  so  remorseless 
that  she  had  to  fly.  Some  friends  received  her. 
She  went  to  get  her  own  living  since  she  is  of 
age.     Can  nothing  be  done  to  rescue  her?" 

"  Well,  she  might  begin  a  lawsuit ;  if  she  real- 
ly is  of  age  he  can  not  hold  her.  But  she  had 
much  better  stay  with  him." 

Such  were  the  opinions  of  the  officials.  They 
courteously  granted  permission  to  Langhetti  to 
take  the  policeman  to  the  house. 

On  knocking  an  old  woman  came  to  the  door. 
In  answer  to  his  inquiries  she  stated  that  a  gentle- 
man had  been  living  there  thiee  weeks,  but  that 
on  the  arrival  of  his  daughter  he  had  gone  home. 

"When  did  he  leave i-" 

"  Yesterday  morning." 


CHAPTER  XLL 

THEY    MEET    AGAIX. 

At  fotu*  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  Beatrice*! 
capture  Brandon  was  roused  by  a  rap  at  his  bed- 
room door.  He  rose  at  once,  and  slipping  ou 
his  dressing-gown,  opened  it.     A  man  entered. 

"Well?"  said  Brandon. 

"  Something  has  happened." 

"What?" 

"  She  didn't  get  home  last  night.  The  landlady 
is  sitting  up  for  her,  and  is  terribly  frightened." 

"  Did  you  make  any  inquiries?" 

"No,  Sir;  I  came  straight  here  in  obedience 
to  your  directions." 

"Is  that  all  you  know ?" 

"AU." 

"Very  well,"  said  Brandon,  calmly,  "you 
may  go." 

llie  man  retired.  Brandon  sat  down  and  bur- 
ied his  head  in  his  hands.  Such  news  as  this 
was  sufficient  to  overwhelm  any  one.  The  man 
knew  nothing  more  than  this,  that  she  had  not 
returned  home  and  that  the  landlady  was  fright- 
ened. In  his  opinion  only  one  of  two  things 
could  have  happened :  either  Langhetti  had  tak- 
en her  somewhere,  or  she  had  been  abducted. 

A  thousand  fancies  followed  one  another  in 
quick  succession.  It  was  too  early  as  yet  to  go 
forth  to  make  inquiries ;  and  he  therefore  was 
forced  to  sit  still  and  form  conjectures  as  to  what 
ought  to  be  done  in  case  his  conjecture  might 
be  true.  Sitting  there,  he  took  a  rapid  suney 
of  all  the  possibiUties  of  the  occasion,  and  laid  his 
plans  accordingly. 

Brandon  had  feared  some  calamity,  and  with 
this  fear  had  arranged  to  have  some  one  in  the 
house  who  might  give  him  information.  The 
information  which  he  most  dreaded  had  come; 
it  had  come,  too,  in  the  midst  of  a  time  of  tri- 
umph, when  she  had  become  one  of  the  supreme 
singers  of  the  age,  and  had  gained  all  that  her 
warmest  admirer  might  desire  for  her. 

If  she  had  not  been  foully  dealt  with  she  must 
have  gone  with  Langhetti.  But  if  so — wliere — 
and  why?  What  possible  reason  might  Lan- 
ghetti have  for  taking  her  away  ?  This  conjec- 
ture was  imjxjssible. 

Yet  if  this  was  impossible,  and  if  she  had  not 
gone  with  Langhetti,  with  whom  could  she  have 
gone?  If  not  a  friend,  then  it  must  have  been 
with  an  enemy.  But  with  what  enemy  ?  There 
was  only  one. 

He  thought  of  Potts.  He  knew  that  this 
wretch  was  capable  of  any  villainy,  and  would 
not  hesitate  at  any  thing  to  regain  possession  of 
the  one  who  had  lied  from  him.  Why  he  should 
wish  to  take  the  trouble  to  regain  possession  of 
her,  except  out  of  pure  villainy,  he  could  not  im- 
agine. 

With  such  thoughts  as  these  the  time  passed 
heavily.  Six  o'clock  at  last  came,  and  he  set  out 
for  the  purpose  of  making  inquiries.  He  went 
first  to  the  theatre.  Here,  after  some  trouble,  he 
found  those  who  had  the  place  in  charge,  and, 
by  questioning  them,  he  learned  that  Beatrice 
had  left  by  herself  in  a  cab  for  her  home,  and 
that  Langhetti  had  remained  some  time  later. 
He  then  went  to  Beatrice's  lodgings  to  question 
the  landlady.  From  there  he  went  to  Langhetti's 
lodgings,  and  found  that  Langhetti  had  come 
home  about  one  o'clock  and  was  not  yet  up. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


157 


Beatrice,  therefore,  had  left  by  herself,  and  had 
not  gone  any  where  with  Langhetti.  She  had 
not  returned  home.  It  seemed  to  him  most 
prolmble  that  either  Tolnntarily  or  involuntarily 
she  had  come  under  the  control  of  Potts.  What 
to  do  under  these  circumstances  was  now  the 
question. 

One  course  seemed  to  him  the  most  direct  and 
certain ;  namely,  to  go  up  to  Brandon  at  once 
and  make  inquiries  there.  From  the  letters 
which  Philips  had  sent  he  had  an  idea  of  the 
doings  of  Potts.  Other  sources  of  information 
had  also  been  secured.  It  was  not  his  business 
to  do  any  thing  more  than  to  see  that  Beatrice 
should  fall  into  no  harm. 

By  ten  o'clock  he  had  acted  upon  this  idea,  and 
was  at  the  railway  station  to  take  the  express 
train.  He  reached  Brandon  village  about  dusk. 
He  went  to  the  inn  in  his  usual  disguise  as  Mr. 
Smithers,  and  sent  up  to  the  hall  for  Mr.  Potts. 

Potts  was  not  there.  He  then  sent  for  Philips. 
After  some  delay  Philips  came.  His  usual  ti- 
midity was  now  if  possible  still  more  marked, 
and  he  was  at  first  too  embarrassed  to  speak. 

"Where  is  Potts?"  asked  Brandon,  abruptly. 

"In  London,  Sir." 

"  He  has  been  there  about  three  weeks,  hasn't 
he?" 

"Yes,  Sir." 

"So  you  wrote  me.  You  thought  when  he 
went  that  he  was  going  to  hunt  up  his  daughter." 

"So  I  conjectured." 

♦ '  And  he  hasn't  got  back  yet  ?" 

"Not  yet." 

"  Has  he  written  any  word  ?" 

"None  that  I  know  of." 

"  Did  you  hear  any  of  them  say  why  he  went 
to  get  her  ?'" 

"Not  particularly;  but  I  guessed  from  what 
they  said  that  he  was  afraid  of  having  her  at 
large. " 

"Afraid?    Why?" 

"  Because  she  knew  some  secret  of  theirs." 

"  Secret !     What  secret  ?"  asked  Brandon. 

"You  know.  Sir,  I  suppose,"  said  Philips, 
meekly. 

Brandon  had  carried  Asgeelo  with  him,  as  he 
was  often  in  the  habit  of  doing  on  his  journeys. 
After  his  interview  with  Philips  he  stood  outside 
on  the  veranda  of  the  village  inn  for  some  time, 
and  then  went  around  through  the  village,  stop- 
ping at  a  number  of  houses.  Whatever  it  was 
that  he  was  engaged  in,  it  occupied  him  for  sev- 
eral hours,  and  he  did  not  get  back  to  the  inn  till 
midnight. 

On  the  following  morning  he  sent  up  to  the 
Hall,  but  Potts  had  not  yet  returned.  Philips 
came  to  tell  him  that  he  had  just  received  a  tele- 
graphic dispatch  informing  him  that  Potts  would 
he  back  that  day  about  one  o'clock.  This  intelli- 
gence at  last  seemed  to  promise  something  definite. 

Brandon  found  enough  to  occupy  him  during 
the  morning  among  the  people  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. He  seemed  to  know  every  body,  and  had 
something  to  say  to  every  one.  Yet  no  one 
looked  at  him  or  spoke  to  him  unless  he  took  the 
initiative.  Last  of  all,  he  went  to  the  tailor's, 
where  he  spent  an  hour. 

Asgeelo  had  been  left  at  the  inn,  and  sat  there 
upon  a  bench  outside,  apparently  idle  and  aim- 
less. At  one  o'clock  Brandon  returned  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  veranda. 


In  about  half  an  hour  his  attention 'was  at- 
tracted by  the  sound  of  wheels.  It  was  Potts's 
barouche,  which  came  rapidly  up  the  road.  In 
it  was  Potts  and  a  young  lady. 

Brandon  stood  outside  of  the  veranda,  on  the 
steps,  in  such  a  position  as  to  be  most  conspicu- 
ous, and  waited  there  till  the  carriage  should 
reach  the  place.  Did  his  heart  beat  faster  aa  he 
recognized  that  form,  as  he  marked  the  settled 
despair  which  had  gathered  over  that  young  face 
— a  face  that  had  the  fixed  and  unalterable 
wretchedness  which  marks  the  ideal  face  of  the 
Mater  Dolorosa  ? 

Brandon  stood  in  such  a  way  that  Potts  could 
not  help  seeing  him.  He  'vaved  his  arm,  and 
Potts  stopped  the  carriage  at  once. 

Potts  was  seated  on  the  front  seat,  and  Bea- 
trice on  the  back  one.  Brandon  walked  up  to 
the  carriage  and  touched  his  hat. 

"Mr.  Smithers!"  cried  Potts,  with  his  usual 
volubility.  "Dear  me,  Sir.  This  is  really  a 
most  unexpected  pleasure.  Sir." 

While  Potts  spoke  Brandon  looked  steadily  at 
Beatrice,  who  cast  upon  him  a  look  of  wonder. 
She  then  sank  back  in  her  seat;  but  her  eyes 
were  still  fastened  on  his  as  though  fascinated. 
Then,  beneath  the  marble  whiteness  of  her  face 
a  faint  tinge  appeared,  a  wann  flush,  that  was 
the  sign  of  hope  rising  from  despair.  In  her 
eyes  there  gleamed  the  flaah  of  recognition ;  for 
in  that  glance  each  had  made  known  all  its  soul 
to  the  other.  In  her  mind  there  was  no  perplex- 
ing question  as  to  how  or  why  he  came  here,  or 
wherefore  he  wore  that  disguise ;  the  one  thought 
that  she  had  was  the  consciousness  that  He  was 
here — here  before  her. 

All  this  took  place  in  an  instant,  and  Potts, 
who  was  talking,  did  not  notice  the  hurrisd 
glance ;  or  if  he  did,  saw  in  it  nothing  but  a  casu- 
al look  cast  by  one  stranger  upon  another. 

"I  arrived  here  yesterday,"  said  Brandon. 
"  I  wished  to  see  you  about  a  matter  of  very 
little  importance  perhaps  to  you,  but  it  is  one 
which  is  of  interest  to  me.  But  I  am  detaining 
you.  By-the-way,  I  am  somewhat  in  a  hurry, 
and  if  this  lady  will  excuse  me  I  will  drive  up 
with  you  to  the  Hall,  so  as  to  lose  no  time." 

' '  Delighted,  Sir,  delighted : "  cried  Potts.  "  Al- 
low me,  Mr.  Smithers,  to  introduce  you  to  my 
daughter." 

Brandon  held  out  his  hand.  Beatrice  held  out 
hers.  It  was  cold  as  ice,  but  the  fierce  thrill  that 
shot  through  her  frame  at  the  touch  of  his  fever- 
ish hand  brought  with  it  such  an  ecstasy  that 
Beatrice  thought  it  was  worth  while  to  have  un- 
dergone the  horror  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours 
for  the  joy  of  this  one  moment. 

Brandon  stepped  into  the  carriage  and  seated 
himself  by  her  side.  Potts  sat  opposite.  He 
touched  her.  He  could  hear  her  breathing. 
How  many  months  had  passed  since  they  sat 
so  near  together !  W^hat  sorrows  had  they  not 
endured!  Now  they  were  side  by  side,  and  for 
a  moment  they  forgot  that  their  bitterest  enemy 
sat  before  them. 

There,  before  them,  was  the  man  who  was  not 
only  a  deadly  enemy  to  each,  but  who  made  it 
impossible  for  them  to  be  more  to  one  another 
than  they  now  were.  Yet  for  a  time  they  forgot 
this  in  the  joy  of  the  ecstatic  meeting.  At  the 
gate  Potts  got  out  and  excused  himself  to  BraiK 
don,  saying  that  he  would  be  up  directly. 


158 


CORD  AND  CREESK 


"Eiftertain  this  gentleman  till  I  come,"  said 
he  to  Beatrice,  "for  he  is  a  great  friend  of 
mine. " 

Beatrice  said  nothing,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  she  could  not  8{>eak. 

They  drove  on.  Oh,  joy !  that  baleful  pres- 
ence was  for  a  moment  removed.  The  driver 
saw  nothing  as  he  drove  imder  the  overarching 
elms — the  elms  under  which  Brandon  had  sport- 
ed in  his  boyhood.  He  saw  not  the  long,  fenid 
glance  that  they  cast  at  one  another,  in  whidi 
each  seemed  to  absorb  all  the  being  of  the  other ; 
he  saw  not  the  close  clasped  hands  with  which 
tliey  clung  to  one  another  now  as  though  they 
would  thus  cling  to  each  other  forever  and  pre- 
vent separation.  He  saw  not  the  swift,  wild 
movement  of  Brandon  when  for  one  instant  he 
Hung  his  arm  around  Beatrice  and  pressed  her 
to  his  heart.  He  heard  not  the  beating  of  that 
strong  heart ;  he  heard  not  the  low  sigh  of  ra])- 
ture  with  which  for  but  one  instant  the  head  of 
Beatrice  sank  upon  her  lover's  breast.  It  was 
but  for  an  instant.  Then  she  sat  upright  again, 
and  their  hands  sought  each  other,  thus  clinging, 
thus  speaking  by  a  voice  which  was  fully  intelli- 
gible to  each,  which  told  how  each  felt  in  the 
presence  of  the  other  love  unutterable,  rapture 
beyond  expression. 

They  alighted  from  the  caniage.  Beatrice 
led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room.  No  one 
was  there.  Brandon  went  into  a  recess  of  one 
of  the  windows  which  commanded  a  view  of  the 
Park. 

"What  a  beautiful  view!"  said  he,  in  a  con- 
Tentional  voice. 

She  came  up  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  Oh,  my  darling!  Oh,  my  darling!"  he  cried, 
over  and  over  again ;  and  flinging  his  arms  around 
her  he  covered  her  face  with  burning  kisses.  Her 
whole  being  seemed  in  that  supreme  moment  to 
be  absorbeti  in  his.  All  consciousness  of  any 
other  thing  than  this  unspeakable  joy  was  lost  to 
her.  Before  all  others  she  was  lofty,  high-souled, 
serene,  self-possessed — with  him  she  was  nothing, 
she  lost  herself  in  him. 

"Do  not  fear,  my  soul's  darling,"  said  he; 
"  no  harm  shall  come.  My  power  is  every  where 
— even  in  this  house.  All  in  the  village  are  mine. 
When  my  blow  falls  you  shall  be  saved." 

She  shuddered. 

"  You  will  leave  me  here?" 

"Heavens!  I  must,"  he  groaned;  "we  are 
the  sport  of  circumstances.  Oh,  my  darling!" 
he  continued,  "you  know  my  story,  and  my 
vengeance." 

"I  know  it  all,"  she  whispered.  "I  would 
wish  to  die  if  I  could  die  by  your  hand. " 

"I  will  save  you.  Oh,  love — oh,  soul  of 
mine  —  my  arms  are  around  you !  You  are 
watched — but  watched  by  me." 

"You  do  not  know,"  she  sighed.  "Alas! 
your  father's  voice  must  be  obeyed,  and  your 
vengeance  must  be  taken." 

"Fear  not,"  said  he ;   "I  will  guard  you." 

She  answered  nothing.  Could  she  confide  in 
his  assurance?  She  conld  not.  She  thought 
with  hoiTor  of  the  life  before  her.  What  could 
Brandon  do  ?     She  coulJ  not  imagine. 

They  stood  thus  in  silence  for  a  long  time. 
Each  felt  that  this  was  their  last  meeting,  and 
each  threw  all  life  and  all  thought  into  the  rap- 
ture of  this  long  and  ecstatic  embrace.     Aft- 


er this  the  impassable  gulf  must  reopen.     Fhe 

I  was  of  the  blood  of  the  accursed.  They  must 
separate  forever. 

He  kissed  her.  He  pressed  her  a  thousand 
times  to  his  heart.  His  burning  kisses  forced  a 
new  and  feverish  life  into  her,  which  roused  all 
her  nature.     Never  before  had  he  dared  so  to 

J  fling  open  all  his  sonl  to  her ;  never  before  had 
he  so  clasped  her  to  his  heart ;  but  now  this  mo- 
ment was  a  break  in  the  agony  of  a  long  sepa- 
ration— a  short  interval  which  must  soon  end 
and  give  way  to  the  misery  which  had  preceded 
it — and  so  he  yielded  to  the  rapture  of  the  hour, 
and  defied  the  future. 

The  moments  extended  themselves.  They 
were  left  thus  for  a  longer  time  than  they  hoped. 

I  Potts  did  not  come.  They  were  still  clinging  to 
one  another.     She  had  fiung  her  arms  around 

j  him  in  the  anguish  of  her  unspeakable  love,  he 
had  clasjied  her  to  his  wildly-throbbing  heart, 
and  he  was  straining  lier  there  recklessly  and  de- 
spairingly, when  suddenly  a  harsh  voice  burst 
upon  their  ears. 
"The  devil!" 

Beatrice  did  not  hear  it.  Brandon  did,  and 
turned  his  face.     Potts  stood  before  them. 

"Jlr.  Potts!"  said  he,  as  he  still  held  Bea- 
trice close  to  his  heart,  "  this  poor  young  lady  is 
in  wretched  health,  ^he  nearly  fainted.  I  had 
to  almost  carry  her  to  the  window.  Will  you  be 
good  enough  to  open  it,  so  as  to  give  her  some 
air?  Is  she  subject  to  these  faints  ?  Poor  child!'' 
he  said ;  "  the  air  of  this  place  ought  surely  to 
do  vou  good.  I  sympathize  with  you  most  deep- 
ly, Mr.  Potts." 

"  "She's  sickly— that's  a  fact, "said  Potts.  "I'm 
very  sorry  that  you  have  had  so  much  trouble — 
I  hope  you'll  excuse  me.  I  only  thought  that 
she'd  entertain  you,  for  she's  very  clever.  Has 
all  the  accomplishments — " 

"Perhaps  3-ou'd  better  call  some  one  to  take 
care  of  her, "  interrupted  Brandon. 

"Oh,  I'll  fetch  some  one.  I'm  sony  it  hap- 
pened so.  I  hope  you  won't  blame  me.  Sir," 
said  Potts,  humbly,  and  he  hurried  out  of  the 
room. 

Beatrice  had  not  moved.  She  heard  Brandon 
speak  to  some  one,  and  at  first  gave  herself  up 

I  for  lost,  but  in  an  instant  she  understood  the  full 

I  meaning  of  his  words.     To  his  admirable  pres- 

I  ence  of  mind  she  added  her  own.  t-he  did  not 
move,  but  allowed  her  head  to  vest  where  it  was, 

i  feeling  a  delicious  joy  in  the  thought  that  Potts 

j  was  looking  on  and  was  utterly  deceived.  When 
he  left  to  call  a  servant  she  raised  her  head  and 
gave  Brandon  a  last  look  expressive  of  her 
deathless,    her   unutterable    love.      Again  and 

I  again  he  pressed  Iicr  to  his  heart.     Then  the 

'  noise  of  servants  coming  in  roused  him.     He 

;  gently  placed  her  on  a  sofa,  and  supported  her 
with  a  grave  and  solemn  face. 

"  Here,  Mrs.  Compton.    Take  charge  of  her," 
said  Potts.     "  She's  been  tiying  to  faint." 
Mrs.  Compton  came  up,  and  kneeling  down 

j  kissed  Beatrice's  hands.     She  said  nothing. 

I      "Oughtn't  she  to  have  a  doctor?"  said  Bran- 

]  don. 

I      "Oh  no — she'll  get  over  it.     Take  her  to  her 

i  room,  Mrs.  Compton." 

"Can  the  poor  child  walk?"  asked  Bran- 

I  don. 

I     Beatrice  rose.     Mrs.  Compton  asked  her  to 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


l.-!» 


"the  df-vil! 


POTTS    STOOP   BEFORE   THEM. 


take  her  arm.  She  did  so,  aad  leaning  heavily 
upon  it,  walked  aAvay. 

"  Siie  seems  very  delicate,"  said  Brandon. 
"  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  a  daughter." 

Potts  sighed. 

"  I  have,"  said  he,  "to  my  sorro\T.'* 

"To  your  sorrow!"  said  Brandon,  with  ex- 
quisitely simulated  sympathy. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other.  *'  I  wouldn't  tell  it 
to  every  one — but  you,  Mr.  Smithers,  are  differ- 
ent t'lom  most  people.  You  see  I  have  led  a 
roving  life.  I  had  to  leave  her  out  in  China  for 
many  years  with  a  female  guardian.  I  suppose 
she  was  not  very  well  taken  care  of.  At  any 
rate,  she  got  acquainted  out  there  with  a  stroll- 
ins  Italian  vagabond,  a  drum-major  in  one  of 
the  regiments,  named  Lnnghetti,  and  this  vilLdii 


gained  her  affections  by  his  hellish  arts.  lie 
knew  that  I  was  ricli,  and,  like  an  unprincipled 
adventurer,  tried  to  get  her,  hoping  to  get  a  for- 
tune. I  did  not  know  any  thing  about  this  till 
after  her  amval  home.  I  sent  for  her  some  time 
ago  and  she  came.  From  the  first  she  was  venr 
sulky,  ^he  did  not  treat  me  like  a  daughter  at 
all.  On  one  occasion  she  actually  abused  me 
and  called  me  names  to  my  face.  She  called  roo 
a  Thug !  What  do  von  think  of  that,  Mr.  Smith- 
ers?" 

The  other  said  nothing,  but  there  was  in  his 
face  a  horror  which  Potts  considered  as  directed 
toward  his  unnatural  offspring. 

"She  was  discontented  here,  though  I  let  her 
have  every  thing.  I  found  out  in  the  end  all 
about  it.     At  last  she  actually  ran  awav.     She 


160 


CORD  AND  CKEEaE. 


joined  this  infamons  Langhetti,  whom  she  had 
discovered  in  some  way  or  other.  They  lived 
together  for  some  time,  and  then  went  to  Lon- 
don, where  she  got  a  situation  as  an  actress. 
You  can  imagine  by  that,"  said  Fotts,  with 
sanctimonious  horror,  "  how  low  she  had  tkllen. 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  was 
afraid  to  make  n  public  demand  for  her  through 
the  law,  for  then*  it  would  all  get  into  the  papers ; 
it  would  be  an  awful  disgrace,  aud  the  whole 
county  would  know  it.  fco  I  waited,  and  a  few 
weeks  ago  I  went  to  Ijondon.  A  chance  oc- 
curred at  last  which  threw  her  in  my  way.  I 
pointed  out  to  her  the  awful  nature  of  the  life 
she  was  leading,  and  offered  to  forgive  her  all  if 
she  would  only  come  back.  The  poor  girl  con- 
sented, and  here  she  is.  But  I'm  very  much 
afraid,"  said  Fotts  in  conclusion,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  that  her  constitution  is  broken  up.  bhc's 
Aery  feeble." 

Brandon  said  nothing. 

"Excuse  me  for  troubling  you  with  my  do- 
mestic affairs ;  but  I  thought  I  ought  to  explain, 
for  you  have  had  such  trouble  with  her  youi-self. " 

"Oh,  don't  mention  it.  I  quite  pitied  the 
poor  child,  I  assure  you ;  and  I  sincerely  hope 
that  the  seclusion  of  this  place,  combined  with 
the  pure  sea-air,  may  restore  her  spirits  and  in- 
vigorate her  in  mind  as  well  as  in  body.  And 
now,  Mr.  Potts,  I  will  mention  the  little  matter 
that  brought  me  here.  I  have  had  business  in 
Cornwall,  and  was  on  my  way  home  when  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  summoning  me  to  America.  I 
may  have  to  go  to  California.  I  have  a  very 
honest  servant,  whom  I  have  quite  a  strong  re- 
gard for,  and  I  am  anxious  to  put  him  in  some 
good  country  house  till  I  get  back.  I'm  afraid 
to  trust  him  in  London,  and  I  can't  take  him 
with  me.  He  is  a  Hindu,  but  speaks  English 
and  can  do  almost  any  thing.  I  at  once  remem- 
bered you,  especially  as  you  were  close  by  me, 
and  thought  that  in  your  large  establishment 
you  might  find  a  place  for  him.     How  is  it  ?" 

"My  dear  Sir,  I  shall  be  proud  and  happy. 
I  should  like,  above  all  things,  to  have  a  man 
here  who  is  recommended  by  one  like  you.  The 
fact  is,  my  servants  are  all  miserable,  and  a  good 
one  can  not  often  be  had.  I  shall  consider  it  a 
favor  if  I  can  get  him." 

"Well,  that  is  all  arranged — I  have  a  regard 
for  him,  as  I  said  before,  and  want  to  have  him 
in  a  pleasant  situation.  His  name  is  Asgeelo,  but 
we  are  in  the  habit  of  calling  him  Cato — " 

"Cato!  a  very  good  name.  Where  is  he 
now?" 

' '  At  the  hotel.  I  will  send  him  to  yon  at  once, " 
said  Brandon,  rising. 

"The  sooner  the  better,"  returned  Potts. 

"  By-the-way,  my  junior  speaks  very  encourag- 
ingly about  the  prospects  of  the  Brandon  Bank — " 

"Does  he?"  cried  Potts,  gleefully.  "Well, 
I  do  believe  we're  going  ahead  of  every  thing." 

"That's  right.  Boldness  is  the  true  way  to 
success." 

"  Oh,  never  fear.     We  are  bold  enough." 

"  Grood.  But  I  am  hurried,  and  I  must  go.  I 
will  send  Asgeelo  up,  and  give  him  a  letter." 

With  these  words  Brandon  bowed  an  adieu 
and  departed.  Before  evening  Asgeelo  was  in- 
stalled as  one  of  the  senants. 


CHAPTER  XLn. 

LANOHETTl's   ATTEMPT. 

Two  days  after  Brandon's  visit  to  Fotts,  Lan> 
ghetti  reached  the  village. 

A  searching  examination  in  London  had  led 
him  to  believe  that  Beatrice  might  now  be  sought 
for  at  Brandon  Hall.  The  police  could  do  nothing 
for  him.  He  had  no  right  to  her.  It'  she  was  of 
age.  she  was  her  own  mistress,  and  must  make 
application  herself  for  her  safety  and  deliverance ; 
if  she  was  under  age,  then  she  must  show  that  she 
was  treated  with  cruelty.  None  of  tliese  things 
could  be  done,  and  Langhetti  despaired  of  ac- 
complishing any  thing. 

The  idea  of  her  being  once  more  in  the  power 
of  a  man  like  Potts  was  frightful  to  him.  This 
idea  filled  his  mind  continually,  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  other  thoughts.  His  opera  was  forgot- 
ten. One  great  horror  stood  before  him,  and  all 
else  became  of  no  account.  The  only  thing  for 
him  to  do  was  to  tiy  to  save  her.  He  could  find 
no  way,  and  therefore  determined  to  go  and  seo 
Potts  himself. 

It  was  a  desperate  undertaking.  From  Bea- 
trice's descriptions  he  had  an  idea  of  the  life  from 
which  she  had  fled,  and  other  things  had  givep 
him  a  true  idea  of  the  character  of  Potts.  He 
knew  that  there  was  scarcely  any  hope  before 
him.  Yet  he  went,  to  satisfy  himself  by  making 
a  last  effort. 

He  was  hardly  the  man  to  deal  with  one  like 
Potts.  Sensitive,  high-toned,  passionate,  im- 
petuous in  his  feelings,  he  could  not  command 
that  calmness  which  was  the  first  essential  in  such 
an  inter>iew.  Besides,  he  was  broken  down  by 
anxiety  and  want  of  sleep.  His  sorrow  for  Bea- 
trice had  disturbed  all  his  thoughts.  Food  and 
sleep  were  alike  abominable  to  him.  His  fine- 
strung  nerAes  and  delicate  organization,  in  wtiich 
every  feeling  had  been  rendered  more  acute  by 
his  mode  of  life,  were  of  that  kind  which  could 
feel  intensely  wherever  the  aff'ections  were  con- 
cerned. His  material  frame  was  too  weak  for 
the  presence  of  such  an  ardent  soul.  Whenever 
any  emotion  of  unusual  power  appeared  he  sank 
rapidly. 

!So  now,  feverish,  emaciated,  excited  to  an  in- 
tense degiee,  he  appeared  in  Brandon  to  confront 
a  cool,  unemotional  villain,  who  scarcely  ever  lost 
his  presence  of  mind.  Such  a  contest  could 
scarcely  be  an  equal  one.  What  could  he  bring 
fonvard  whicli  could  in  any  way  aff"ect  such  a 
man  ?  He  had  some  ideas  in  his  own  mind  which 
he  imagined  might  be  of  service,  and  trusted  more 
to  impulse  than  any  thing  else.  He  went  up  early 
in  the  morning  to  Brandon  Hall. 

Potts  was  at  home,  and  did  not  keep  Langhet- 
ti long  waiting. 

There  was  a  vast  contrast  between  these  two 
men — the  one  coarse,  fat,  vulgar,  and  strong; 
the  other  refined,  slender,  spiritual,  and  delicate, 
with  his  large  eyes  burning  in  their  deep  sockets, 
and  a  strange  mystery  in  his  face. 

"  I  am  Paolo  Langhetti,"  said  he,  abruptly— 
"  the  manager  of  the  Covent  Garden  Theatre." 

"  You  are,  are  you  ?"  answered  Potts,  rudely ; 
"then  the  sooner  you  get  out  of  this  the  better. 
The  devil  himself  couldn't  be  more  impudent.  I 
have  just  saved  jpy  daughter  from  your  clutches, 
and  Im  going  to  pay  you  off',  too,  my  fiue  fellow, 
before  long." 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


161 


•'Your  daughter!"  said  Langhetti.  "What 
she  is,  and  who  »he  U,  you  very  well  know.  If 
the  dead  could  speak  they  would  tell  a  diHerent 
story. " 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean,"  cried  Potts, 
"  by  the  dead  ?  At  any  rate  you  are  a  fool ;  for 
very  naturally  the  dead  can't  speak ;  but  what 
concern  that  has  with  my  daughter  I  don't  know. 
Mind,  you  are  playing  a  dangerous  game  in  try- 
ing to  bully  me." 

Potts  spoke  fiercely  and  menacingly.  Lan- 
ghetti's  impetuous  soul  kindled  to  a  new  fervor 
at  this  insulting  language.  He  stretched  out  his 
long,  thin  hand  toward  Potts,  and  said : 

"I  hold  your  life  and  fortune  in  my  hand. 
Give  up  that  girl  whom  you  call  your  daughter." 

Potts  stood  for  a  moment  staring. 

' '  The  de vi  1  you  do !"  he  cried,  at  last.  ' '  Come, 
I  call  that  good,  rich,  racy !  Will  your  sublime 
Excellency  have  the  kindness  to  explain  yourself? 
If  my  life  is  in  your  hand  it's  in  a  devilish  lean 
and  weak  one.  It  strikes  me  you've  got  some 
kink  in  your  brain — some  notion  or  other.  Out 
with  it,  and  let  us  see  what  you're  driving  at!" 

"Do  you  know  a  man  named  Cigole?"  said 
Langhetti. 

"Cigole ! "  replied  Potts,  after  a  pause,  in  which 
.  he  had  stared  hard  at  Langhetti;  "well,  what 
if  I  do?    Perhaps  I  do,  and  perhaps  I  don't." 

"He  is  in  my  power,"  said  Langhetti,  vehe- 
mently. 

"  Much  good  may  he  do  you  then,  for  I'm  sure 
when  he  was  in  my  power  he  never  did  any  good 
to  me." 

"He  will  do  good  in  this  case,  at  any  rate," 
said  Langhetti,  with  an  effort  at  calmness.  "  He 
was  connected  with  you  in  a  deed  which  you 
must  remember,  and  can  tell  to  the  world  what 
he  knows." 

"  Well,  what  if  he  does?"  said  Potts. 

"He  will  tell,"  cried  Langhetti,  excitedly, 
"the  true  story  of  the  Despard  murder." 

"Ah!"  said  Potts,  "now  the  murder's  out. 
That's  what  I  thought.  Don't  you  suppose  I 
saw  through  you  when  you  first  began  to  speak 
so  mysteriously?  I  knew  that  you  had  learned 
some  wonderful  story,  and  that  you  were  going 
to  trot  it  out  at  the  right  time.  But  if  you  think 
you're  going  to  bully  me  you'll  find  it  hard  work." 

"  Cigole  is  in  my  power,"  said  Langhetti, 
fiercely. 

"And  80  you  think  I  am,  too?"  sneered 
Potts. 

"Partly  ro." 

"Why?" 

"Because  he  was  an  accomplice  of  yours  in 
the  Despard  murder." 

"So  he  says,  no  doubt;  but  who'll  believe 
him?" 

"  He  is  going  to  turn  Queen's  evidence !"  said 
Langhetti,  solemnly. 

"Queen's  evidence!"  returned  Potts,  con- 
temptuously, "and  what's  his  evidence  worth — 
the  evidence  of  a  man  like  that  against  a  gentle- 
man of  unblemished  character?" 

"  He  will  be  able  to  show  what  the  character 
of  that  gentleman  is,"  rejoined  Langhetti. 

"Who  will  believe  him?" 

"No  one  can  help  it." 

"You  believe  him,  no  doubt.  You  and  he 
arc  both  Italians — both  dear  friends — and  both 
enemies  of  mine;   but  sujjpose  I  prove  to  the 


worid  conclusively  that  Cigole  is  snch  a  sconn- 
drel  that  his  testimony  is  worthless  ?" 

"You  can't,"  cried  Langhetti,  furiously. 

Potts  cast  a  look  of  contempt  at  him — 

"Can't  I!"  He  resumed:  "How  very  sim- 
ple, how  confiding  you  must  be,  my  dear  Lan- 
ghetti! Let  me  explain  my  meaning.  You  get 
up  a  wild  charge  against  a  gentleman  of  charac- 
ter and  position  about  a  murder.  In  the  first 
place,  you  seem  to  forget  that  the  real  murderer 
has  long  since  been  punished.  That  miserable 
devil  of  a  Malay  was  very  properly  convicted  at 
Manilla,  and  hanged  there.  It  was  twenty  years 
ago.  What  English  court  would  consider  the  case 
again  after  a  calm  and  impartial  Spanish  court 
^as  settled  it  finally,  and  punished  the  criminal? 
They  did  so  at  the  time  when  the  case  was  fresh, 
and  I  came  forth  honored  and  triumphant.  Yoa 
now  bring  forward  a  man  who,  you  hint,  will 
make  statements  against  me.  Suppose  he  does  ? 
What  then  ?  Why,  I  will  show  what  this  man 
is.  And  you,  my  dear  Langhetti,  will  be  the 
first  one  whom  I  will  bring  up  against  him.  I 
will  bring  you  up  under  oath,  and  make  you  tell 
how  this  Cigole — this  man  who  testifies  against 
me — once  made  a  certain  testimony  in  Sicily 
against  a  certain  Langhetti  senior,  by  which  that 
certain  Langhetti  senior  was  betrayed  to  the 
Government,  and  was  saved  only  by  the  folly  of 
two  Englishmen,  one  of  whom  was  this  same 
Despard.  I  will  show  that  this  Langhetti  sen- 
ior was  your  father,  and  that  the  son,  instead  of 
avenging,  or  at  any  rate  resenting,  his  father's 
wrong,  is  now  a  bosom  friend  of  his  father's  in- 
tended murderer — that  he  has  urged  him  on 
against  me.  I  will  show,  my  dear  Langhetti, 
how  you  have  led  a  roving  life,  and,  when  a 
drum-major  at  Hong  Kong,  won  the  affections 
of  my  daughter ;  how  yon  followed  her  here,  and 
seduced  her  away  from  a  kind  father ;  how  at 
infinite  risk  I  regained  her;  how  you  came  to 
me  with  audacious  threats;  and  how  only  the 
dread  of  further  scandal,  and  my  own  anxious 
love  for  my  daughter,  prevented  me  from  hand- 
ing you  over  to  the  authorities.  I  will  prove  you 
to  be  a  scoundrel  of  the  vilest  description,  and, 
after  such  proof  as  this,  what  do  you  think  would 
be  the  verdict  of  an  English  jury,  or  of  any  judge 
in  any  land ;  and  what  do  you  think  wotdd  be 
your  own  fate?    Answer  me  that." 

Potts  spoke  with  savage  vehemence.  The 
frightful  truth  flashed  at  once  across  Langhet- 
ti's  mind  that  Potts  had  it  in  his  power  here  to 
show  all  this  to  the  world.  He  was  overwhelm- 
ed. He  had  never  conceived  the  possibility  of 
this.  Potts  watched  him  silently,  with  a  sneer 
on  his  face. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  you  had  better  go  and 
comfort  yourself  with  your  dear  friend  Cigole, 
your  father's  intended  murderer?"  said  he  at 
length.  "  Cigole  told  me  all  about  this  long 
ago.  He  told  me  many  things  about  his  life 
which  would  be  slightly  damaging  to  his  char- 
acter as  a  witness,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  the  worst  thing  against  him  in  English  eyes 
is  his  betrayal  of  your  father.  But  this  seems  to 
have  been  a  very  slight  matter  to  you.  It's  odd 
too;  I've  alwajs  supposed  that  Italians  under- 
stood what  vengeance  means." 

Langhetti's  face  bore  an  expression  of  agonj 
which  he  could  not  conceal.  Every  word  of 
Potts  stung  him  to  the  soul.    lie  stood  for  some 


16t 


COKD  AND  CREESE. 


time  in  silence.     At  Inst,  withoat  a  word,  he 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

His  brain  reeled.  I7e  Ktnggered  rather  than 
wnliied.  I'ottH  looked  nt'ter  him  with  a  Nmilo  of 
triumph.  He  left  the  Hull  and  returned  to  the 
village. 


CHAPTEU  XLIII. 


THE    STRANGER. 


A  FKW  weeks  after  I^nghetti's  visit  Potts  had 
a  new  visitor  at  the  bank.  The  stranger  entered 
the  bank  parlor  noiselessly,  nnd  stood  (|uietly 
waiting  for  Potts  to  be  disengaged.  That  worthy 
was  making  some  entries  in  a  small  memoran- 
dum-book. Turning  his  head,  he  saw  the  new- 
comer. Potts  looked  surprised,  and  the  stranger 
said,  in  a  pecidiar  voice,  somewhat  gruif  and 
hesitating, 

"Mr.  Potts?" 

"Yes,"  said  Potts,  looking  hard  at  his  vis- 
itor. 

He  was  a  man  of  singular  aspect.  His  hair 
was  long,  parted  in  the  middle,  and  straight. 
He  wore  dark  colored  si)ectacles.  A  thick,  black 
beard  ran  under  his  chin.  His  linen  was  not 
over-clean,  and  he  wore  a  long  surtout  coat. 

"  I  belong  to  the  firm  of  Bigelow,  Higginson, 
&  Co.,  Solicitors,  London — I  am  the  Co." 

"  WeU !" 

"  The  business  about  which  I  have  come  is  one 
of  some  importance.  Are  we  secure  from  inter- 
ruption?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Potts,  "  as  much  as  I  care  about 
being.  I  don't  know  any  thing  in  particular  that 
I  care  about  locking  the  doors  for." 

"Well,  you  know  best,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  The  business  upon  w  hich  I  have  come  concerns 
you  somewhat,  but  your  son  principally." 

Potts  started,  and  looked  with  eager  inquirj' 
at  the  stranger. 

"It  is  such  a  serious  case,"  said  the  latter, 
"  that  my  seniors  thought,  before  taking  any  steps 
in  the  matter,  it  would  be  best  to  consult  you 
privately." 

"  Well,"  returned  Potts,  with  a  frown,  "  what 
is  this  wonderful  case  ?"' 

"  Forgery,"  said  the  stranger. 

Potts  started  to  his  feet  with  a  ghastly  face, 
and  stood  speechless  for  some  time. 

"Do  you  know  who  you're  talking  to?"  said 
he,  at  last. 

"John  Potts,  of  Brandon  Hall,  I  presume," 
said  the  stranger,  coolly.  "My  business  con- 
cerns him  somewhat,  but  his  son  still  more. '" 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  growled 
Potts,  in  a  savage  tone. 

"  Forgary,"  said  the  stranger.  "  It  is  an  En- 
glish word,  I  believe.  Forgery,  in  which  your 
son  was  chief  agent.  Have  I  made  myself  un- 
derstood ?" 

Potts  looked  at  him  again,  and  then  slowly 
v.ent  to  the  door,  locked  it,  and  put  the  key  in 
his  pocket. 

"  That's  right,"  said  the  stranger,  quietly. 

"You  appear  to  take  things  easy,"  rejoined 
Potts,  angrily ;  "but  let  me  tell  you,  if  you  come 
to  bully  me  you've  got  into  the  wrong  shop." 

"Yon  appear  somewhat  heated.  You  must 
be  calm,  or  else  we  can  not  get  to  business  ;  and 
in  that  case  1  shall  have  to  leave."' 


"  I  don't  see  how  that  would  be  any  affliction," 
said  Potts,  with  a  sneer. 

"  That's  because  you  don't  understand  my  po- 
sition, or  the  state  of  the  present  business.  For 
if  I  leave  it  will  be  the  signal  for  a  numlier  of  in- 
terested parties  to  make  a  combined  attack  on 
you." 

"An  attack?" 

"Yes." 

"Who  is  there?"  said  Potts,  defiantly. 

"  Giovanni  Cavnllo,  for  one  ;  my  seniors, 
Messrs.  Bigolow  &  Higginson,  and  several  otii- 
ers." 

"  Never  heard  of  any  of  them  before." 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  if  you  write  to  Smithcrs 
&  ('o.  they  will  tell  you  that  Bigelow,  Ifiggiiison, 
&  Co.  are  their  solicitors,  and  do  their  confiden- 
tial business." 

"Smithers  &  Co.  ?"  said  Potts,  aghast. 

"Yes.  It  would  not  be  for  your  interest  for 
Bigelow,  Higginson,  «Sb  Co.  to  show  Smithcrs  & 
Co.  the  proofs  which  they  have  against  you, 
would  it?" 

Potts  was  silent.  An  expression  of  consterna- 
tion came  over  his  face.  He  punged  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets  and  bowed  his  head  frown- 
ingly. 

"It's  all  bosh,"  said  he,  at  last  raising  his  ■ 

head.     "  Let  them  show  and  be  d d.     What 

have  they  got  to  show  ?" 

"  I  will  answer  your  question  regularly,"  said 
the  stranger,  "in  accordance  with  my  instruc- 
tions"—  and,  drawing  a  pocket-book  from  his 
pocket,  he  began  to  read  from  some  memoranda 
written  there. 

"  l.f<.  The  notes  to  which  the  name  of  Ralph 
Brandon  is  attached,  150  in  number,  amounting 
to  £y3,.5()0." 

"Pooh!"  said  Potts. 

"  These  forgeries  were  known  to  severtl  be- 
sides your  son  and  yourself,  and  one  of  these  men 
will  testify  against  you.  Others  who  know  Bran- 
don's signature  swea'  that  this  lacks  an  import- 
ant point  of  distinction  common  to  all  the  Bran- 
don signatures  handed  down  from  father  to  son. 
You  were  foolish  to  leave  these  notes  afloat. 
They  have  all  been  bought  up  on  a  speculation 
by  those  who  wished  to  make  the  Brandon  prop- 
erty a  little  dearer." 

"  I  don't  think  they  11  make  a  fortune  out  of 
the  speculation,"  said  P(  :ts,  who  was  stifling  with 
rage.     "  D n  them !  who  are  they  ?" 

"Well,  there  are  several  witnesses  who  are 
men  of  such  character  that  if  my  seniors  sent 
them  to  Smithers  &  Co.  Smithers  &  Co.  would 
believe  that  you  were  guilty.  In  a  court  of  law 
you  would  have  no  better  chance.  One  of  these 
witnesses  says  he  can  prove  that  your  true  name 
is  Briggs." 

At  this  Potts  bounded  from  his  chair  and 
stepped  forward  with  a  terrific  oath. 

"  You  see,  your  son's  neck  is  in  very  consider- 
able danger." 

"Yours  is  in  greater,''  said  Potts,  with  men- 
acing eyes. 

"Not  at  all.  Even  supposing  that  yon  were 
absurd  enough  to  offer  violence  to  an  humble 
subordinate  like  me,  it  would  not  interfere  with 
the  policy  of  Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson,  &  Co., 
who  are  determined  to  make  money  out  of  thi? 
transaction.  So  you  see  it's  absurd  to  talk  d 
violence.' 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


IRS 


The  stmngcr  took  no  flirther  notice  of  I'otts, 
but  looked  n^niii  at  hisi  memornndn ;  while  the 
Litter,  whose  face  waa  now  terrilic  from  the  furi- 
oiiH  |iAMiion!«  which  it  exhihited,  stood  like  a  wild 
beiist  in  u  cage,  "  willing  to  wound,  but  yet  afraid 
to  strike. " 

"The  next  case,"  said  the  stranger,  "  is  the 
Thornton  forgery.'' 

"Thornton I"  exclaimed  Potts,  with  greater 
agitation. 

"Yes,"  said  the  stranger.  ''In  connection 
with  the  Desimrd  murder  there  were  two  sets  of 
forgeries;  one  being  the  Thornton  correspond- 
ence, and  the  other  your  correspondence  with 
the  Bank  of  Good  Hope." 

"Heavens!  what's  all  this?"  cried  Potts. 
"Where  have  vou  been  unearthing  thisfrubbish  ?" 

"First,"  said  the  stranger,  without  noticing 
Potts's  exclamation,  "  there  are  the  letters  to 
Thornton,  Senior,  twenty  years  ago,  in  which  an 
attempt  waa  made  to  obtain  (^olonel  Despard's 
money  for  yourself.  One  Clark,  an  accomplice 
of  yours,  presented  the  letter.  The  forgery  was 
at  once  detected.  Clark  might  have  escaped, 
but  he  made  an  effort  at  burglarj-,  was  caught, 
and  condemned  to  transportation.  He  had  been 
already  out  once  before,  and  this  time  received 
u  new  brand  in  addition  to  the  old  ones." 

Poftn  did  not  say  a  word,  but  sat  stu])efied. 

"Thornton,  Junior,  i.s  connected  with  us,  and 
his  testimony  is  valuable,  as  he  wus  the  one  who 
detected  the  forgery.  He  also  was  the  one  who 
went  to  tlie  Cape  of  Good  Hojie,  where  he  had 
tiie  pleasure  of  meeting  with  you.  This  brings 
me  to  the  third  case,"  continued  the  stranger. 

"  Lettei-s  were  sent  to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
ordering  money  to  be  paid  to  John  Potts.  Thorn- 
ton, Senior,  fearing  from  the  first  attempt  that  a 
similar  one  would  be  made  at  the  Cajie,  where 
the  deceased  had  funds,  sent  his  son  there.  Young 
Thornton  reached  the  i)lace  just  before  you  did, 
and  would  have  airested  you,  but  the  proof  was 
not  sufficient." 

"Aha!"  cried  Potts,  grasping  at  this — "not 
sufficient  proof  I  I  should  think  not."  His  voice 
was  husky  and  his  manner  nervous. 

"  I  said  '  was  not' — but  Messrs.  Bigelow,  Hig- 
ginson,  &  Co.  have  informed  me  that  there  are 
parties  now  in  communication  with  them  who 
can  prove  how,  when,  where,  and  by  whom  the 
forgeries  were  executed." 

"It's  a  d d  infernal  lie!"  roared  Potts,  in 

a  fresh  burst  of  anger. 

"  I  only  rei)eat  what  they  state.  The  man  has 
already  written  out  a  statement  in  full,  and  is 
only  waiting  for  my  return  to  sign  it  before  a 
magistrate.  This  will  be  a  death-warrant  for 
your  son ;  for  Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson,  &  Co. 
will  have  him  arrested  at  once.  Y'ou  are  aware 
that  he  has  no  chance  of  escape.  The  amount 
is  too  enonnous,  and  the  proof  is  too  strong." 

"Proof!"  cried  Potts,  desperately;  "who 
would  believe  any  thing  against  a  man  like 
me,  John  Potts — a  man  of  the  county  ?" 

"  English  law  is  no  respecter  of  persons."  said 
the  stranger.  "  Hank  goes  for  nothing.  But  if 
it  did  make  class  distinctions,  the  witnesses  about 
these  documents  are  of  great  influence.  There  is 
Thornton  of  Holby,  and  Colonel  Heniy  Despard 
at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  with  whom  Messre. 
Higelow,  Higginson,  &  Co.  have  had  corre- 
spondence.    There  are  also  others." 


"It's  all  a  lie!"  exclaimed  Potts,  in  a  voice 
which  was  a  little  tremulous.  "  Who  is  this  fool 
who  has  l)cen  making  out  pajwrit  ?" 

"His  name  is  Philips;  true  name  Lnwton. 
He  tells  a  verv  extraordinary  Bti  y;  verj- extraor- 
dinary indeed." 

The  stranger's  jwculiar  voice  was  now  intenni- 
fied  in  its  odd,  hnrsh  intonations.  The  effect  on 
Potts  was  overwhelming.  For  a  moment  he  wu 
unable  to  speak. 

"  Philijw!"  he  gasped,  at  length. 

"  Yes.  You  sent  him  on  business  to  Rmithem 
&  Co.  He  haa  not  yet  returned.  He  does  not 
intend  to,  for  he  was  found  out  by  Messrs.  Bige- 
low, Higginson,  &  Co.,  and  you  know  how  timid 
he  is.  They  have  succeeded  in  extracting  the 
truth  from  him.  As  I  am  in  a  hurr)-,  and  you, 
too,  must  l>e  busy,"  continued  the  stranger,  with 
unchanged  accents,  "I  will  now  come  to  the 
point.  Th&se  forged  papers  involve  an  amount 
to  the  extent  of — Brandon  forgeries,  XitM.AOO; 
Thornton  papers,  £r.0()() ;  Bank  of  (iood  Hope, 
£4(X)<);  being  in  all  i;i()2,r<(M).  Messrs.  Bige- 
low, Higginson,  &  Co.  have  instnicted  me  to  say 
that  they  will  sell  these  papers  to  you  at  their 
face  without  charging  interest.  They  will  hand 
them  over  to  you  and  you  can  destroy  them,  in 
which  case,  of  course,  the  charge  must  be 
dro))ped." 

" Philii)s !"  cried  Potts.  "I'll  have  that  devil's 
blood !" 

"That  would  be  murder,"  said  the  stranger, 
with  a  peculiar  emphasis. 

His  tone  stung  Potts  to  the  quick. 

"You  ap])ear  to  take  me  for  a  bom  fool,"  he 
cried,  striding  up  and  down. 

"Not  at  all.  I  am  only  an  agent  carrjrng 
out  the  instructions  of  others." 

Potts  suddenly  stopped  in  his  walk. 

"Have  you  all  those  papers  about  you?"  he 
hissed. 

"All." 

Potts  looked  all  around.  The  door  wa'?  locked. 
They  were  alone.  The  stranger  easily  read  hi* 
thought. 

"No  use,"  said  he,  calmly.  "Messrs.  Bige- 
low, Higginson,  &  Co.  would  miss  me  if  any 
thing  l^pppened.  Resides,  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
that  I  am  arrried." 

The  stranger  rose  up  and  faced  Potts,  while, 
from  behind  his  dark  spectacles,  his  eyes  seemed 
to  glow  like  fire.     Potts  retreated  with  a  curee. 

"  Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson,  &  Co.  instructed 
me  to  say  that  if  I  am  not  back  with  the  money 
by  to-morrow  night,  they  will  at  once  begin  ac- 
tion, and  have  your  son  arrested.  They  will 
also  inform  Smithers  &  Co.,  to  whom  they  say 
you  are  indebted  for  over  £G()0,00().  So  that 
Smithers  &  Co.  will  at  once  come  dowTi  upon 
you  for  payment." 

"Do  Smithers  &  Co.  know  any  thing  about 
this?"  asked  Potts,  in  a  voice  of  intense  anxi- 
ety. 

"  They  do  business  with  you  the  same  as  ever, 
do  they  not?"' 

"Yes." 

"  How  do  you  suppose  they  can  know  it  ?" 

"They  would  never  believe  it." 

"They  would  believe  any  statement  made  by 
Messrs.  Bigelow,  Higginson,  &  Co.  My  seniors 
have  been  on  your  track  for  a  long  time,  and  have 
come  into  connection  with  various  parties.     One 


IM 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


man  who  in  an  Ttalinn  they  coniHder  important. 
They  authorize  nie  to  italo  to  yuu  that  this  man 
can  aiiMj  prove  the  forgeriua." 

'*  Who  ?"  gaitpe<i  I'otu. 

"His  name  is  Cigole." 

"Cigole!" 

"Yea." 

••D him!" 

"  You  mar  damn  him,  but  that  won't  silence 
him,"  remarked  the  other,  mildly. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going- to  do?"  growled 
Potts. 

"  Present  you  the  offer  of  Messrs.  Bigelow, 
Iliggiiison,  &  Co.,"  said  the  other,  with  calm  per- 
tinacity. "Upon  it  depend  your  fortune  and 
your  son's  life. ' 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  wait  ?" 

"Till  evening.  I  leave  to-night.  Perhaps 
you  would  like  to  think  this  over.  I'll  give  you 
till  ',hree  o'clock.  If  you  decide  to  accept,  all 
well ;  if  not,  I  go  back." 

The  stranper  rose,  and  Potts  unlocked  the 
door  for  him. 

After  he  left  Potts  sat  down,  buried  in  his  own 
reflections.     In  about  an  hour  Clark  came  in. 

"  Well,  Johnniel"  said  he,  "what's  up?  You 
look  down — any  trouble?" 

At  this  Potts  told  Clark  the  stoiy  of  the  recent 
inteniew.  Clark  looked  grave,  and  shook  his 
head  several  times. 

"Bad!  bad!  bad!"  said  ho,  slowly,  when 
Potts  had  ended.  "  You're  in  a  tight  place,  lad, 
■  and  I  don't  see  what  you've  got  to  do  but  to 
knock  under." 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"  When  did  that  chap  say  he  would  leave  ?" 

"To-night." 

Another  silence. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Clark,  "we  can  find  out 
how  he  goes  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so."  returned  Potts,  gloomily. 

"Somebody  might  go  with  him  or  follow  him," 
said  Ciurk,  darkly 

Potts  IfM^ked  at  him.  The  two  exchanged 
glances  of  intelligence. 

"  You  see,  you  pay  your  money,  and  get  your 
papers  back.  It  would  be  foolish  to  let  this  man 
get  away  with  so  much  money.  One  Ijundred 
and  two  thousand  five  hundred  isn't  to  be  picked 
up  every  day.  Let  us  pick  it  up  this  time,  or  try 
to.  I  can  drop  down  to  the  inn  this  evening,  and 
see  the  cut  of  the  mun.  I  don't  like  what  he 
said  about  me.     I  call  it  backbiting. " 

"  You  take  a  proper  v.ew  of  the  matter,"  said 
Potts.  "He's  dangerous.  He'll  be  down  on 
you  next.  What  I  don't  like  about  him  is  his 
cold-bloodedness. " 

" It  does  come  hard." 

"  Well,  we'll  arrange  it  that  way,  shall  we?" 

"  Yes,  you  pay  over,  and  get  your  documents, 
and  111  try  my  hand  at  getting  the  money  back. 
I've  done  harder  things  than  that  in  my  time, 
and  so  have  you — hey,  lad !" 

"  I  remember  a  few." 

"I  wonder  if  this  man  knows  any  of  them. " 

"No,"  said  Potts,  confidently.  "He  would 
have  said  something." 

"Don't  be  too  sure.  The  fact  is,  I've  been 
troubled  ever  since  that  girl  came  out  so  strong 
on  us.     What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her  ?" 

"Don't  know,"  growled  Potts.  "Keep  her 
still  somehow." 


"Give  her  tome." 

"  What'U  you  do  with  hor?"  asked  Potts,  In 
■nrprise. 

"Take  her  as  my  wife,"  said  Clark,  with  a 
grin.  "  I  think  111  follow  your  example  and  set 
up  housekeeping.  The  girl's  plucky;  and  I'd 
like  to  take  her  down." 

"We'll  do  it;  and  the  sooner  the  better.  You 
don't  want  a  minister,  do  you  ?" 

"  Well,  I  think  I'll  have  it  done  up  ship-shape , 
marriage  in  high  life ;  papers  all  full  of  it ;  love- 
ly  appearance  of  the  bride — ha,  ha,  ha!  I'll 
save  you  all  further  trouble  about  her — a  hus- 
band is  better  than  a  father  in  such  a  case.  If 
that  Italian  comes  round  it'll  be  his  last  round." 

Some  further  conversation  followed,  in  which 
Clark  kept  making  perpetual  references  to  his 
bride.  The  idea  had  taken  hold  of  his  mind  com- 
pletely. 

At  one  o'clock  Potts  went  to  the  inn,  where  he 
found  the  agent.  He  handed  over  the  money  in 
silence.  The  agent  gave  him  the  documents. 
Potts  looked  at  them  all  carefully. 

Then  be  departed. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE   stranger's   STORT. 

That  evening  a  number  of  people  were  in  the 
principal  parlor  of  the  Brandon  Inn.  It  was  a 
cool  evening  in  October;  and  there  was  a  fire 
near  which  the  partner  of  Bigelow,  Higginson, 
&  Co.  had  seated  himself. 

(^lark  had  come  in  at  the  first  of  the  evening 
and  had  been  there  ever  since,  talking  volubly 
and  laughing  boisterously.  The  others  were 
more  or  less  talkative,  but  none  of  them  rivaled 
Clark.  They  were  nearly  all  Brandon  people ; 
and  in  their  treatment  of  Clark  there  was  a  cer- 
tain restraint  which  the  latter  either  did  not  wish 
or  care  to  notice.  As  for  the  stranger  he  sat 
apart  in  silence  without  regarding  any  one  in 
particular,  and  giving  no  indication  whether  he 
was  listening  to  what  was  going  on  or  was  indif- 
ferent to  it  all.  From  time  to  time  Clark  threw 
glances  in  his  direction,  and  once  or  twice  he 
tried  to  draw  some  of  the  company  out  to  make 
remarks  about  him;  but  the  company  seemed 
reluctant  to  touch  upon  the  subject,  and  merely 
listened  with  patience. 

Clark  had  evidently  a  desire  in  his  mind  to  be 
very  entertaining  and  lively.  With  this  intent  he 
told  a  number  of  stories,  most  of  which  were  in- 
termingled with  allusions  to  the  company  present, 
together  with  the  stranger.  At  last  he  gazed  at 
the  latter  in  silence  for  some  little  time,  and  then 
turned  to  the  company. 

' '  There's  one  among  us  that  hasn't  opened  his 
mouth  this  evening.  I  call  it  unsociable.  I  move 
that  the  party  proceed  to  open  it  forthwith.  Who 
seconds  the  motion?    Don't  all  speak  at  once." 

The  company  looked  at  one  another,  but  no 
one  made  any  reply. 

"What!  no  one  speaks!  All  right;  silence 
gives  consent;"  and  with  these  words  Clark  ad- 
vanced toward  the  stranger.  The  latter  said  no- 
thing, but  sat  in  a  careless  attitude. 

"Friend!"  said  Clark,  standing  before  the 
stranger,  ' '  we're  all  friends  here — we  wish  to  be 
sociable — we  think  you  are  too  silent — will  you 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


m 


be  kind  enongh  to  open  yonr  mouth  ?  If  you 
M'oii't  tell  n  Htoiy,  |ierhaiM  you  will  bo  good 
enuugli  to  sing  \i»  a  sung  ?' 

The  stranger  Hat  upright. 

"Well,"  Miid  he^  in  the  luttne  peculiar  harsh 
voire  and  slow  tune  with  whirh  he  had  spoken 
to  I'otts,  "  the  request  is  a  fair  one,  and  1  shall 
be  happy  to  open  my  mouth.  I  regret  to  state 
that  having  no  voice  I  shall  be  unable  to  give 
you  a  song,  but  I'll  be  glad  to  tell  a  story,  if  the 
company  will  listen." 

"The  com|)any  will  feel  honored,"  said  Clark, 
in  a  mocking  tone,  us  he  resumed  his  seat. 

The  stranger  arose,  and,  going  to  the  fire- 
place, picked  up  a  piece  of  charcoal. 

Clark  sat  in  the  midst  of  the  circle,  looking  at 
him  with  a  sneering  smile. 

"It's  rather  an  odd  story,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  and  I  only  heard  it  the  other  day ;  perhaps 
you  won't  believe  it,  but  it's  tnie." 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  truth  of  iti "  exclaimed 
Clark — "push  along." 

The  stranger  stepped  up  to  the  wall  over  the 
fire-place. 

"  Before  I  begin  I  wish  to  make  a  few  marks, 
which  I  will  explain  in  |)ro<ess  of  time.  My 
stoiy  is  connected  with  these." 

lie  took  his  charcoal  and  made  upon  the  wall 
the  following  marks : 


A 
+ 


He  then  turned,  and  stood  for  a  moment  in 
silence. 

The  effect  upon  Clark  was  appalling.  His 
face  turned  livid,  his  arms  clutched  violently  at 
the  seat  of  his  chair,  his  jaw  fell,  and  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  marks  as  though  fascinated  by 
them. 

The  stranger  appeared  to  take  no  notice  of 
him. 

"  These  marks,"  said  he,  "  were,  or  rather  are, 
upon  the  back  of  a  friend  of  mine,  'about  whom 
i  am  going  to  tell  a  little  stor\- : 

"  The  first  ( /|\  )  is  the  Queen's  mark,  put  on 
certain  prisoners  out  in  Botany  Bay,  who  are  to- 
tally insubordinate. 

"The  second  (R)  signifies  'run  away,'  and 
is  put  on  those  who  have  attempted  to  escape. 

"  The  third  (-f-)  indicates  a  murderous  assault 
on  the  guards.  When  they  don't  hang  the  cul- 
prit they  put  this  on,  and  those  who  are  branded 
in  this  way  have  nothing  but  hard  work,  in  chains, 
for  life. 

"These  marks  are  on  the  back  of  a  friend 
of  mine,  whose  name  I  need  not  mention,  but 
for  convenience  sake  I  will  call  him  Clark. " 


Clark  didn't  even  resent  this,  bat  sat  mute, 
with  a  face  of  awful  expectation. 

"My  friend  Clark  had  led  a  life  of  strange 
vicissitudes,"  said  the  stranger,  "having  Nlippud 
through  the  meshes  of  the  law  very  succesHful- 
ly  a  great  number  of  times,  but  fiiuilly  he  was 
caught,  and  sent  to  Botany  Bay.  He  sened 
his  time  out,  and  left ;  but,  finally,  after  a  se- 
ries of  very  extraordinary  adventures  in  India, 
and  some  udd  events  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  he 
came  to  England.  Bad  luck  followed  him,  how- 
ever. He  made  an  attempt  at  burglary,  and  >vns 
caught,  convicted,  and  sent  back  again  to  his  nld 
station  at  Botany  Bay. 

"Of  course  he  felt  a  strong  reluctance  to  May 
in  such  a  place,  and  therefore  twgan  to  plan  un 
esca])e.  He  made  one  attempt,  which  was  un- 
successful. He  then  laid  a  plot  with  two  other 
notorious  offenders.  Each  of  these  three  had 
been  branded  with  those  letters  which  I  have 
marked.  One  of  these  was  named  Stubh.s,  and 
another  Wilson,  the  third  was  this  Clark.  Xo 
one  knew  how  they  met  to  make  their  arrange- 
ments, for  the  prison  regulations  are  very  strict ; 
but  they  did  meet,  and  managed  to  confer  to- 
gether. They  contrived  to  get  rid  of  the  chains 
that  were  fastened  around  their  ankles,  and  one 
stormy  night  they  started  otl'  and  made  a  run  for 
it. 

"The  next  day  the  guards  were  out  in  pursuit 
with  dogs.  They  went  all  day  long  on  their 
track  over  a  very  rough  country,  and  finally  came 
to  a  river.    Here  they  prepared  to  pass  the  night. 

"On  rising  early  on  the  following  moniing 
they  saw  something  moving  on  the  top  of  a  hill 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  On  watching 
it  narrowly  they  saw  three  men.  They  hurried 
on  at  once  in  pursuit.  The  fugitives  kept  well 
ahead,  however,  as  was  natural ;  and  since  they 
were  running  for  life  and  freedom  they  made  a 
better  pace. 

"  But  they  were  pretty  well  worn  out.  They 
had  taken  no  provisions  with  them,  and  had  not 
calculated  on  so  close  a  pursuit.  They  kept 
ahead  as  best  they  could,  and  at  last  reached  a 
narrow  ri\er  that  ran  down  l)etween  clifl's  through 
a  gully  to  the  sea.  The  cliffs  on  each  side  were 
high  and  bold.  But  they  had  to  cross  it;  so 
down  on  one  side  they  went,  and  up  the  other. 

"  Clark  and  Stubbs  got  up  first.  Wilson  was 
just  reaching  the  top  when  the  report  of  a  gun 
was  heard,  and  a  bullet  struck  him  in  the  arm. 
Groaning  in  his  agony  he  rushed  on  trjing  to 
keep  up  with  his  companions. 

"  Fortunately  for  them  night  came  on.  They 
hurried  on  all  night,  scarcely  knowing  where 
they  were  going,  Wilson  in  an  agony  trying  to 
keep  up  with  them.  Toward  morning  they 
snatched  a  little  rest  under  a  rock  near  a  brook 
and  then  hurried  for^vard. 

"  For  two  days  more  they  hastened  on,  keep- 
ing out  of  reach  of  their  pursuers,  yet  still  know- 
ing that  they  were  followed,  or  at  least  fearing 
it.  They  had  gone  over  a  wild  country  along  the 
coast,  and  keeping  a  northward  direction.  At 
length,  after  four  days  of  wandering,  they  csime 
to  a  little  creek  by  "the  sea-shore.  There  were 
three  houses  here  belonging  to  fishermen.  They 
rushed  into  the  first  hut  and  implored  food  and 
drink.  The  men  were  off  to  Sydney,  hut  the 
kind-hearted  women  gave  them  what  they  had. 
They  were  terrified  at  the  aspect  of  these  wretch- 


180 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


ed  men,  whose  natural  ferocity  had  been  height- 
ened by  hardship,  famine,  and  suftering.  Gaunt 
and  grim  as  they  were,  they  seemed  more  terri- 
ble than  three  wild  beasts.  The  women  knew 
that  they  were  escaped  convicts. 

"There  was  a  boat  lying  on  the  beach.  To 
this  the  first  thoughts  of  the  fugitives  were  direct- 
ed. They  filled  a  cask  of  water  and  put  it  on 
board.  They  demanded  some  provisions  from 
the  fisherman's  wife.  The  frightened  woman 
gave  them  some  fish  and  a  few  ship -biscuit. 
They  were  about  to  forage  for  themselves  when 
Wilson,  who  had  been  watching,  gave  the  alarm. 

"  Their  pursuers  were  upon  them.  They  had 
to  run  for  it  at  once.  They  had  barely  time  to 
rush  to  the  boat  and  get  out  a  little  distance 
when  the  guard  readied  the  beach.     Th«  latter 


fired  a  few  shots  after  them,  but  the  siiots  took 
no  eft'ect. 

"  The  fugitives  put  out  to  sea  in  the  open  boat. 
They  headed  north,  for  they  hoped  to  catch  some 
Australian  ship  and  be  taken  up.  Their  provi- 
sions were  soon  exhausted.  Fortunately  it  was  the 
rainy  season,  so  that  they  had  a  plentiful  supply 
of  water,  with  which  they  managed  to  keep  their 
cask  filled  ;  but  that  did  not  prevent  them  from 
suffering  the  agonies  of  famine.  Clark  and  Stubbs 
soon  began  to  look  at  Wilson  with  looks  that 
made  him  quiver  with  terror.  Naturally  enough, 
gentlemen ;  you  see  they  were  starving.  Wilson 
was  the  weakest  of  the  three,  and  therefore  was 
at  their  mercy.  They  triad,  however,  to  catch 
fish.  It  was  of  no  use.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
fish  in  those  seas,  or  else  the  bits  of  bread  crumb 


CORD  AND  CKEESE. 


1«7 


which  they  put  down  were  not  an  attractive 
bait. 

"The  two  men  began  to  look  at  Wilson  with 
the  eyes  of  fiends — eyes  that  tlamed  with  foul 
desire,  beaming  from  deep,  hollow  orbits  which 
famine  had  made.  The  days  passed.  (Jue 
morning  Wilson  lay  dead." 

The  stranger  paused  for  a  moment,  amidst  an 
awful  silence. 

"The  lives  of  these  two  were  preserved  a  lit- 
tle longer,"  he  added,  in  slow,  measured  tones. 

"They  sailed  on.  In  a  few  days  Clark  and 
Stubbs  began  to  look  at  one  another.  You  will 
understand,  gentlemen,  that  it  was  an  awful 
thing  for  these  men  to  cast  at  each  other  the 
same  glances  which  they  once  cast  on  Wilson. 
Each  one  feared  the  other ;  each  watched  his 
chance,  and  each  guarded  against  his  companion. 

"They  could  no  longer  row.  The  one  sat  in 
the  bow,  the  other  in  the  stern,  glaring  at  one 
another.  My  triend  Clark  was  a  man  of  singu- 
lar endurance.  But  why  go  into  particulars? 
Enough;  the  boat  drifted  on,  and  at  last  only 
one  was  left. 

"A  ship  was  sailing  from  Australia,  and  the 
crew  saw  a  boat  drifting.  A  man  was  there. 
They  stopjicd  and  picked  him  up.  The  boat  was 
stained  with  blood.  Tokens  of  what  that  blood 
was  lay  around.  There  were  other  things  in  the 
boat  which  chilled  the  blood  of  tiie  sailors.  They 
took  Clark  on  board.  He  was  mad  at  first, 
and  raved  in  his  delirium.  They  heard  him 
tell  of  what  he  had  done.  During  that  voy- 
age no  one  spoke  to  him.  They  touched  at  Cape 
TowTi,  and  put  him  ashore. 

"My  friend  is  yet  alu-e  and  well.  How  do 
yon  like  my  story  ?" 

The  stranger  sat  down.  A  deep  stillness  fol- 
lowed, which  was  suddenly  broken  by  something, 
half  groan  and  half  curse.     It  was  Clark. 

He  lifted  himself  heavily  from  his  chair,  his 
face  livid  and  his  eyes  bloodshot,  and  staggered 
out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

Beatrice's  journal  concluded. 

September  7,  1849. — [This  part  begins  with  a 
long  account  of  her  escape,  her  fortunes  at  Hol- 
by  and  London,  and  her  recapture,  which  is  here 
omitted,  as  it  would  be  to  a  large  extent  a  rep- 
etition of  what  has  already  been  stated.] — After 
Brandon  left  me  my  heart  still  throbl)ed  with  the 
fierce  impulse  which  he  had  imparted  to  it.  For 
the  remainder  of  the  day  I  was  upheld  by  a  sort 
of  consciousness  of  his  presence.  I  felt  as  though 
be  had  only  left  me  in  person  and  had  surrounded 
me  in  some  way  with  his  mysterious  protection. 

Night  came,  and  with  the  night  came  gloom. 
What  availed  his  promise?  Could  he  prevent 
what  I  feared  ?  What  power  could  he  possibly 
have  in  this  house  ?  I  felt  deserted,  and  my  old 
ilesjjair  returned. 

In  the  morning  I  happened  to  cross  the  hall  to 
g)  to  Mrs.  Comptons  room,  when,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, I  saw  standing  outside  the  Hindu  Asgeelo. 
I!nd  I  seen  Brandon  himself  I  could  scarcely 
have  lieen  more  amazed  or  overjoyed.  He  look- 
Dtl  at  me  with  a  warning  gesture. 

"  How  did  you  get  here  ?"  1  whispere '. 


"My  master  sent  me." 

A  thrill  passed  through  my  veins. 

"Do  not  fear,"  he  said,  and  walked  mysteri- 
ously away. 

I  asked  Mrs.  Compton  who  he  was,  and  she 
said  he  was  a  new  sen'ant  whom  He  n.  d  just 
hired.     She  knew  nothing  more  of  him. 

•Septetiiber  12. — A  week  has  passed.  Thus 
far  I  have  been  left  alone.  Perhaps  they  do  not 
know  what  to  do  with  me.  Perhaps  they  are 
busy  arranging  some  dark  plan. 

Can  I  trust  ?  Oh,  Help  of  the  helpless,  save 
me! 

Asgeelo  is  here — but  what  can  one  man  do? 
At  best  he  can  only  report  to  his  master  my 
agony  or  my  death.  May  tha*  Death  soon  come. 
Kindly  will  I  welcome  him. 

Sejitember  15. — Things  are  certainly  different 
here  from  what  they  used  to  be.  The  servants 
take  pains  to  put  themselves  in  my  way,  so  as  to 
show  me  profound  respect.  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  ?  Once  or  tw  ice  I  have  met  them  in 
the  hall  and  have  marked  their  humble  bearing. 
Is  it  mockery  ?  Or  is  it  intended  to  entrap  me  ? 
I  will  not  trust  any  of  them.  Is  it  possible  that 
this  can  be  Brandon's  mysterious  power  ? 

Impossible.  It  is  rather  a  trick  to  win  my 
confidence.  But  if  so,  why  ?  They  do  not  need 
to  trick  me.     I  am  at  their  mercy. 

I  am  at  their  mercy,  and  am  without  defense. 
What  will  become  of  me  ?  What  is  to  be  my  fate  ? 

Philips  has  been  as  devoted  as  ever.  He 
leaves  me  flowers  every  day.  He  tries  to  show 
sympathy.  At  least  I  have  two  friends  here — 
Philips  and  Asgeelo.  But  Philips  is  timid,  and 
Asgeelo  is  only  one  against  a  crowd.  There  is 
Vijal-  -but  I  have  not  seen  him. 

September  25. — To-day  in  my  closet  I  found  a 
number  of  bottles  of  dift'erent  kinds  of  medicine, 
used  while  I  was  sick.  Two  of  these  attracted 
my  attention.  One  was  labeled  ^'Laudanum," 
another  was  labeled  "  Ilydrocyani  Acid — Poi- 
son." I  suppose  they  used  these  drugs  for  my 
benefit  at  that  time.  The  sight  of  them  gave 
me  more  joy  than  any  thing  else  that  I  could 
haw  found. 

When  the  time  comes  which  I  dread  I  shall 
not  be  without  resource.      These  shall  save  me. 

October  3. — They  leave  me  unmolested.  They 
are  waiting  for  some  crushing  blow,  no  doubt. 
Asgeelo  sometimes  meets  me,  and  makes  signs 
of  encouragement. 

To-day  Philips  met  me  and  said :  "Don't  fear 
— the  crisis  is  coming. '"  I  asked  what  he  meant. 
As  usual  he  looked  frightened  and  hurried  away. 

What  does  he  mean?  What  crisis?  The 
only  ciisis  that  I  can  think  of  is  one  which  fills 
me  with  dread.  When  that  comes  I  will  meet 
it  firmly. 

October  10. — Mrs.  Compton  told  me  to-day 
that  Philips  had  gone  to  London  on  business. 
The  poor  old  tiling  looked  very  much  troubled, 
I  urged  her  to  tell  me  what  was  the  matter,  but 
she  only  looked  the  more  terrified.  Why  she 
should  feel  alarm  about  the  departure  of  Philips 
for  London  I  can  not  imagine.  Has  it  anything  to 
do  with  me  ?  No.  How  can  it  ?  My  fate,  what- 
ever it  is,  must  be  wrought  out  here  in  this  place. 

October  14. — The  dreaded  crisis  has  come  at 
last.  Will  not  this  be  my  last  entry  ?  How  can 
I  longer  avoid  the  fate  that  imjjend.s  ? 

This  afternoon  He  sent  for  me  to  come  down. 


163 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


I  went  to  the  dining-room  expecting  some  hor- 
ror, and  I  was  not  disappointed.  The  three 
were  sitting  there  as  they  had  sat  before,  and  I 
thought  that  there  was  trouble  upon  their  faces. 
It  was  only  two  o'clock,  and  they  had  just  fin- 
ished lunch. 

John  vras  the  first  to  speak.  He  addressed 
me  in  a  mocking  tone. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  inform  you,"  said  he, 
•'that  the  time  has  arrived  when  you  are  to  be 
took  down." 

I  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  these  words. 
I  felt  calm.  The  old  sense  of  superiority  came 
over  me,  and  I  looked  at  Him  without  a  tremor. 

My  tyrant  glanced  at  me  with  a  dark  scowl. 
"After  your  behavior,  girl,  you  ought  to  bless  | 

Jour  lucky  stars  that  you  got  off^  as  you  did.    If  i 
had  done  right,  I'd  have  made  you  pay  up  well  j 
for  the  trouble  you've  given.     But  I've  spared  i 

irou.  At  the  same  time  I  wouldn't  have  done  so 
ong.  I  was  just  arranging  a  nice  little  plan  for 
irour  benefit  when  this  gentleman" — nodding  his 
lead  to  Clark — "this  gentleman  saved  me  the 
trouble." 

I  said  nothing. 

"  Come,  Clark,  speak  up — it's  your  afi'air — " 

"Oh,  you  manage  it," said  Clark.  "You've 
got  the  'gift  of  gab.'    I  never  had  it." 

"I  never  in  all  my  bom  days  saw  so  bold  a 
man  as  timid  with  a  girl  as  you  are. " 

"  He's  doin'  what  I  shouldn't  like  to  try  on," 
said  John. 

"  See  here,"  said  my  tyrant,  sternly,  "this  gen- 
tleman has  Aery  kindly  consented  to  take  charge 
of  you.  He  has  even  gone  so  far  as  to  consent 
to  maiTy  you.  He  will  actually  make  you  his 
wife.  In  my  opinion  he's  crazy,  but  he's  got  Iiis 
own  ideas.  He  has  promised  to  give  you  a  tip- 
top wedding.  If  it  had  been  left  to  me, "  he  went 
on,  sternly,  "I'd  have  let  j'ou  have  something 
very  different,  but  he's  a  soft-hearted  fellow,  and 
is  going  to  do  a  foolish  thing.  It's  lucky  for 
you  tliough.  You'd  have  had  a  precious  hard 
time  of  it  with  me,  I  tell  you.  You've  got  to  be 
grateful  to  him ;  so  come  up  here,  and  give  him 
a  kis<i,  and  thank  him." 

So  prepared  was  I  for  any  horror  that  this  did 
not  surprise  me. 

"Do  you  hear?"  he  cried,  as  I  stood  motion- 
less.    I  said  nothing, 

"  Do  as  I  say,  d — n  you,  or  I'll  make  you." 

"Come,"  said  Clark,  "  don't  make  a  fuss  about 
the  wench  now — it  "11  be  all  right.  She'll  like 
kissing  well  enough,  and  be  only  too  glad  to  give 
me  one  before  a  week. " 

"  Yes,  but  she  ought  to  be  made  to  do  it  now." 

"Not  necessary,  Johnnie ;  all  in  good  time." 

My  master  was  silent  for  some  moments.  At 
last  he  spoke  again : 

"  Girl,"  said  he.  "You  are  to  be  man-ied  to- 
morroAV.  There  won't  be  any  invited  guests, 
but  you  needn't  mind  that.  You'll  have  your 
husband,  and  that's  more  than  you  deserAe.  You 
don't  Avant  anv  new  dresses.  Your  ball  dress 
will  do." 

"Come,  I  won't  stand  that,"  said  Clark. 
"  She's  got  to  be  dressed  up  in  tip-top  style.  I'll 
stand  the  damage." 

' '  Oh,  d — n  the  damage.  If  you  want  that  sort 
of  thing,  it  shall  be  done.  But  there  Avon't  be 
time." 

"  Oh  well,  let  her  fix  up  the  best  way  she  can.' 


At  this  I  turned  and  left  the  room.  None  <  f 
them  tried  to  prevent  me.  I  Avent  up  to  n  y 
chamber,  and  sat  down  thinking.  The  horn-  ht  d 
come. 

TTiis  is  my  last  entry.  My  only  refuge  froi  i 
horror  unspeakable  is  the  Poison. 

Perhaps  one  day  some  one  will  find  my  jour 
nal  where  it  is  concealed.  Let  them  learn  from 
it  what  angtiish  may  be  endured  by  the  innocent. 

May  God  have  mercy  upon  my  soul !     Amen. 

October  14,  11  o' clock. — Hope! 

Mrs.  Compton  came  to  me  a  few  minutes 
since.  She  had  received  a  letter  from  PhiUps  b- 
Asgeelo.  She  said  the  Hindu  wished  to  fp  ^.e. 
He  was  at  my  door.  I  went  there.  He  told  me 
that  I  Avas  to  fly  from  Brandon  Hall  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  would  take  care  of 
me.  Mrs.  Compton  said  she  was  to  go  a*  ith  me. 
A  place  had  been  found  where  Ave  could  get  shel- 
ter. 

Oh  my  God,  I  thank  thee !  Already  Avhen  I 
heard  this  I  Avas  mixing  the  draught.  Two 
o'clock  Avns  the  hour  on  Avhich  I  had  decided  for 
a  different  kind  of  flight. 

Oh  God !  deliver  the  captive.  Save  me,  as  I 
put  my  trust  in  thee !     Amen. 


CHAPTER  XLVI, 


THE     LAST     ESCAPE. 


The  hour  AA-hich  Beatrice  had  mentioned  in 
her  diary  Avas  awaited  by  her  Avith  feverish  im- 
patience. She  had  confidence  in  Asgeelo,  and 
this  confidence  AA'as  heightened  by  the  fact  ihut 
Mrs.  Compton  Avas  going  to  accompany  her. 
The  very  timidity  of  this  poor  old  creature  Avould 
have  ])revented  her  from  thinking  of  escape  on 
any  ordinary  occasion  ;  but  now  the  latter  showed 
no  fear.  She  evinced  a  strange  exultation.  She 
showed  Philips's  letter  to  Beatrice,  and  made  lier 
read  it  over  and  over  again.  It  contained  only  a 
few  Avords. 

"  The  time  has  come  at  last.  I  Avill  keep  my 
Avord  to  you,  dear  old  Avoman.  Be  ready  to- 
night to  leave  Brandon  Hall  and  thooe  devils 
forever.     The  Hindu  will  help  you. 

"Edgar." 

Mrs.  Compton  seemed  to  think  far  more  of  tlie 
letter  than  of  escaping.  The  fact  that  she  had 
a  letter  seemed  to  absorb  all  her  faculties,  aiul 
no  other  idea  entered  her  mind.  Beatrice  had 
but  few  preparations  to  make;  a  small  panel 
contained  all  Avith  which  she  dared  to  encumber 
herself.  Hastily  making  it  up  she  waited  in  ex- 
treme impatience  for  the  time. 

At  last  two  o'clock  came.  Mrs.  Compton  Avas 
in  her  room.  There  was  a  faint  tap  at  the  door. 
Beatrice  opened  it.  It  Avas  Asgeelo.  The  Hin- 
du stood  Avith  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  then 
moved  aAA-ay  sloAvly  and  stealthily.  They  fol- 
lowed. 

The  Hindu  led  the  way,  carrjing  a  small  lan- 
tern. He  did  not  show  any  Aery  great  caution, 
but  moA-ed  with  a  quiet  step,  thinking  it  sufficient 
if  he  made  no  noise.  Beatrice  followed,  and 
Mrs.  Compton  came  last,  carrjing  nothing  but 
the  note  from  Philips,  Avhich  she  clutched  in  her 
hand  as  though  she  esteemed  it  the  only  thing 
of  A-alue  which  she  possessed. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


169 


THE   OlttAXTIC    nnCRE    OF    A8GEELO  STOOD   ERECT,   ONE    ARM   CLrTCHrNG   THE    THROAT   OF 
HIS    ASSAILANT,    AND   THE    OTHER    HOLDING   THE    KNIFE    ALOFT." 


In  spite  of  Beatrice's  confidence  in  Asgeelo 
she  felt  her  heart  sink  with  dread  as  she  passed 
tliroiigh  tlie  liall  and  down  the  great  stairway. 
Rut  no  sound  disturbed  them,  llie  lights  were 
all  out,  and  the  house  was  still.  The  door  of  the 
dining-room  was  open,  but  no  light  shone  through. 

Asgeelo  led  the  way  to  the  north  door.  They 
went  on  quietly  without  any  interruption,  and  at 
last  reached  it.  Asgeelo  turned  the  key  and  held 
the  door  half  open  fn-  a  moment.  Then  he 
turned  and  whispered  to  them  to  go  out. 

Beatrice  took  two  or  three  steps  fonvard,  when 
suddenly  a  dark  figure  emerged  from  the  stair- 
way that  led  to  the  servants"  hall  and  with  a  sud- 
den selling  advanced  to  Assceelo. 

The  Litter  drojipoJ  the  lamp,  which  fell  with 
I. 


a  rattle  on  the  floor  but  still  continued  burning. 
He  drew  a  long,  keen  knife  from  his  breast,  and 
seized  the  other  by  the  throat. 

Beatrice  started  back.  By  the  light  that  flick- 
ered on  the  floor  she  saw  it  all.  The  gigantic 
figure  of  Asgeelo  stood  erect,  one  arm  clutching 
the  throat  of  his  assailant,  and  the  other  holding 
the  knife  aloft. 

Beatrice  rushed  forward  and  v^aught  the  up- 
lifted arm. 

"  Spare  him !"  she  said,  in  a  low  whisper. 
"He  is  my  friend.  He  helped  me  to  escape 
once  before." 

She  had  recognized  Vijal. 

The  Hindu  dropped  hi*  arm  and  released  his 
hold.     The  Malay  staggered  back  and  looked 


tra 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


earnestly  nt  Beatrice.  Recognizing  her,  he  fell 
on  his  knees  and  kissed  her  hand. 

"  I  will  keep  your  secret,"  he  murmured. 

Beatrice  hurried  out,  and  the  others  followed. 
They  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  door  after  them. 
Vijal  had  locked  it  from  the  inside. 

Asgeelo  led  the  way  with  a  swift  step.  They 
went  down  the  main  avenue,  and  at  length 
reached  the  gate  without  any  interruption.  The 
gates  were  shut. 

Beatrice  looked  around  in  some  dread  for  fear 
of  being  discovered.  Asgeelo  said  nothing,  but 
tapped  at  the  door  of  the  porter's  lodge.  The 
door  soon  opened,  and  the  porter  came  out.  He 
said  nothing,  but  opened  the  gates  in  silence. 

They  went  out.  The  huge  gates  shut  behind 
them.  They  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock.  In 
her  excitement  Beatrice  wondered  at  this,  and 
saw  that  the  porter  must  also  be  in  the  secret. 
Was  this  the  work  of  Brandon? 

They  passed  down  the  road  a  little  distance, 
and  at  length  reached  a  place  where  there  were 
twu  coaches  and  some  men. 

One  of  these  came  up  and  took  Mrs.  Compton. 
"Come,  old  woman,"  said  he;  "you  and  I  are 
to  go  in  this  coach."  It  was  too  dark  to  see  who 
it  was  ;  but  the  voice  sounded  like  that  of  Phil- 
ips. He  led  her  into  the  coach  and  jumped  in 
after  her. 

There  was  another  figure  there.  He  advanced 
in  silence,  and  motioned  to  the  coach  without  a 
word.  Beatrice  followed ;  the  coach  door  was 
opened,  and  she  entered.  Asgeelo  mounted  the 
box.  The  stranger  entered  the  coach  and  shut 
the  door. 

Beatrice  had  not  seen  the  face  of  this  man ; 
but  at  the  sight  of  the  outline  of  his  figure  a 
strange,  wild  thought  came  to  her  mind.  As  he 
seated  himself  by  her  side  a  thrill  passed  through 
every  nerve.     Not  a  word  was  spoken. 

He  reached  out  one  hand,  and  caught  hers  in 
•a  close  and  fen-id  clasp.  He  threw  his  arm 
about  her  waist,  and  drew  her  toward  him.  Her 
head  sank  in  a  delicious  languor  upon  his  breast ; 
and  she  felt  the  fast  thTobbing  of  his  heart  as  she 
lay  there.  He  held  her  jjressed  closely  for  a 
long  while,  drawing  quick  and  heavy  breaths, 
and  not  speaking  a  word.  Then  he  smoothed 
her  brow,  stroked  her  hair,  and  caressed  her 
cheek.     Every  touch  of  his  made  her  blood  tingle. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  said  at  last  a 
well-known  voice. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  pressed  his  hand 
and  nestled  more  closely  to  his  heart. 

The  carriages  rushed  on  swiftly.  They  went 
through  the  village,  passed  the  inn,  and  soon  en- 
tered the  open  country.  Beatrice,  in  that  mo- 
ment of  ecstasy,  knew  not  and  cared  not  whither 
they  were  going.     Enough  that  she  was  with  him. 

"  You  have  saved  me  from  a  fate  of  horror," 
iaid  she,  tremulously ;  "  or  rather,  you  have  pre- 
vented me  from  saving  myself  " 

"  How  could  you  have  saved  yourself?" 

"I  found  poison." 

She  felt  the  shudder  that  passed  through  his 
frame.  He  pressed  her  again  to  his  heart,  and 
sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence. 

"  How  had  you  the  heart  to  let  me  go  back 
when  you  could  get  me  away  so  easily?"  said 
she,  after  a  time,  in  a  reproachful  tone. 

"I  could  not  save  you  then."  answered  he, 
"  without  open  violence.     I  wished  to  defer  that 


for  the  accomplishment  of  a  purpose  which  you 
I  know.      But  I  secured  your  safety,  for  all  the 
I  servants  at  Brandon  Hall  are  in  my  pay. " 
I      "What!  Vijal  too?" 

I      "  No,  not  Vijal ;  he  was  incorruptible  ;  but 
I  all  the  others.     They  would  have*  obeyed  your 
,  slightest  wish  in  any  respect.     They  would  have 
j  shed  their  blood  for  you,  for  the  simple  reason 
:  that  I  had  promised  to  pay  each  man  an  enor- 
mous sum  if  he  saved  you  from  any  trouble. 
They  were  all  on  the  look  out.     You  never  w  ;re 
so  watched  in  your  life.     If  you  had  chosen  tc 
run  off  every  man  of  them  would  have  helped  yoi', 
and  would  have  rejoiced  at  the  chance  of  making 
themselves  rich  at  the  expense  of  Potts.     Under 
tliese  circumstances  I  thought  you  were  safe." 

"And  why  did  you  not  tell  me?" 

"Ah!  love,  there  are  many  things  which  I 
must  not  tell  you." 

He  sighed.  His  sombre  tone  brought  back 
her  senses  which  had  been  wandering.  Slie 
struggled  to  get  away.     He  would  not  release  her. 

"Let  me  go!"  said  she.  "I  am  of  the  ac- 
cursed brood — the  impure  ones!  Y'ou  are  i)ol- 
luted  by  my  touch !" 

"  I  will  not  let  you  go,"  returned  he,  in  a  tone 
of  infinite  sweetness.  "Not  now.  This  may  be 
our  last  inteniew.     How  can  I  let  you  go ? ' 

"I  am  pollution." 

"You  are  angelic.  Oh,  let  us  not  think  of 
other  things.  Let  us  banish  from  our  niitids  the 
thought  of  that  barrier  which  rises  betv.een  us. 
While  we  are  here  let  us  forget  every  tiling  ex- 
cept that  we  love  one  another.  To-mon-ow  will 
come,  and  our  joy  will  be  at  an  end  forever. 
But  you,  darling,  will  be  saved !  I  will  guard 
you  to  my  life's  end,  even  though  I  can  not  come 
near  you." 

Tears  fell  from  Beatrice's  eyes.  He  felt  them 
hot  upon  his  hand.     He  sighed  deejjly. 

"  I  am  of  the  accursed  brood ! — the  accursed ! 
— the  accursed!  You  dishonor  your  name  by 
touching  me." 

Brandon  clung  to  her.  He  would  not  let  her 
go.  She  wept  there  upon  his  breast,  and  still 
munnured  the  words,  "Accursed!  Kccursed!' 

Their  carriage  rolled  on ;  behind  them  came 
the  other ;  on  for  mile  after  mile,  round  the  bays 
and  creeks  of  the  sea,  until  at  last  they  reached 
a  village. 

"This  is  our  destination,"  said  Brandon. 

"Where  are  we?"  sighed  Beatrice. 

"  It  is  Denton,"  he  repHed. 

The  coach  stopped  before  a  little  cottage.  As- 
geelo opened  the  door.  Brandon  pressed  Bea- 
trice to  his  heart. 

"For  the  last  time,  darling,"  he  munnured. 

She  said  nothing.  He  helped  her  out,  catch- 
ing her  in  his  arms  as  she  descended,  and  lifting 
her  to  the  ground.  Mrs.  Compton  was  already 
waiting,  having  descended  first.  Lights  were 
burning  in  the  cottage  window. 

"This  is  your  home  for  the  present,"  said 
Brandon.  "  Here  you  are  safe.  Y'ou  will  find 
every  thing  that  you  want,  and  the  servants  are 
faithful.     You  may  trust  them." 

He  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Compton,  pressed 
the  hand  of  Beatrice,  and  leaped  into  the  coach. 

"  Good-by,"  he  called,  as  Asgeelo  whipped 
the  horses. 

"Good -by  f)rever,"  munnured  Beatrice 
through  her  tears. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


171 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

ROUSED  AT    LAST. 

Abodt  this  time  Despard  i-eceived  a  call  from 
Langhetti.  "I  urn  going  away,"  said  the  lat- 
ter, aftei"  the  preliminary  greetings.  "I  am 
well  enough  now  to  resume  my  search  after  Bea- 
trice. " 

"Beatrice?"  •      • 

"Yes." 

"  What  can  you  do  ?" 

"  I  haven't  an  idea ;  bat  I  mean  to  try  to  do 
something." 

Langhetti  certainly  did  not  look  like  a  man 
who  was  capable  of  doing  very  much,  esne- 
cially  against  one  like  Potts.  Thin,  pale,  frag- 
ile, and  emaciated,  his  slender  form  seemed 
ready  to  yield  to  the  pressure  of  the  first  fatigue 
which  he  might  encounter.  Yet  his  resol.ition 
w^as  strong,  and  he  spoke  confidently  of  being 
able  in  some  mysterious  way  to  ett'ect  the  es- 
cape of  Beatrice,  lie  iiad  no  idea  how  he  could 
do  it.  He  had  exerted  his  strongest  influence, 
and  had  come  away  discomfited.  Still  he  had 
confidence  in  himself  and  trust  in  God,  and  with 
these  he  determined  to  set  out  once  more,  and 
to  succeed  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 

After  he  had  left  Despard  sat  moodily  in  his 
study  for  some  hours.  At  last  a  visitor  was  an- 
nounced. He  was  a  man  whom  Despard  had 
never  seen  before,  and  who  gave  his  name  as 
Wheeler. 

The  stranger  on  entering  regarded  Despard 
for  some  time  with  an  earnest  glance  in  silence. 
At  last  he  spoke : 

"  You  are  the  son  of  Lionel  Despard,  are  you 
not?" 

"Yes,"  said  Despard,  in  some  surprise. 

"Excuse  me  for  alluding  to  so  sad  an  event; 
but  you  are,  of  course,  aware  of  the  common 
story  of  his  death." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Despard,  in  still  greater  sur- 
prise. 

"  That  story  is  known  to  the  world,"  said  the 
stranger.  "His  case  was  publicly  tried  at  Ma- 
nilla, and  a  Malay  was  executed  for  the  crime." 

"I  know  that,"  returned  Despard,  "and  I 
know,  also,  that  there  were  some,  and  that  there 
still  are  some,  who  suspect  that  the  Malay  was 
innocent." 

"  Who  suspected  this?" 

"  My  uncle  Henrj-  Despard  and  myself." 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you  if  your  sus- 
picions pointed  at  any  one  ?" 

"  My  uncle  hinted  at  one  person,  but  he  had 
nothing  more  than  suspicions." 

"  Who  was  the  man  ?" 

"  A  man  who  was  my  father's  valet,  or  agent, 
who  accompanied  him  on  that  voyage,  and  took 
an  active  part  in  the  couN-iction  of  the  Malay." 

"  What  was  his  name?" 

"John  Potts." 

"  Where  does  he  live  now  ?" 

"In  Brandon." 

"  Very  well.  Excuse  my  questions,  but  I  was 
anxious  to  learn  how  much  you  knew.  You  will 
see  shortly  that  they  were  not  idle.  Has  any 
thing  ever  been  done  by  any  of  the  relatives  to 
discover  whuther  these  suspicions  were  cor- 
rect?" 

"At  first  nothing  was  done.  They  iccepted 
as  an  established  fact  the  decision  of  tie  Manilla 


court.  They  did  not  even  suspect  then  that  any 
thing  else  was  poMible.  It  ^vas  only  subsequent 
circumstances  that  led  my  uucle  to  have  some 
vague  suspicions." 

"  What  were  those,  may  I  ask?" 

"I  would  rather  not  tpll,"  said  Despard,  who 
shrank  from  relating  to  a  stranger  the  mysterious 
story  of  Edith  Brandon. 

"  It  is  as  well,  perhaps.  At  any  rate,  you  say 
there  were  no  suspicions  expressed  till  your  uncle 
was  led  to  form  tliem  ?" 

"No." 

"  About  how  long  ago  was  this  ?" 

"  About  two  years  ago — a  little  more,  perhaps. 
I  at  once  devoted  myself  to  the  task  of  discover- 
ing whether  they  could  be  maintained.  I  found 
it  impossible,  however,  to  learn  any  thing.  The 
event  had  happened  so  long  ago  that  it  had  faded 
out  of  men's  minds.  The  person  whom  I  sus- 
pected had  become  very  rich,  influential,  and 
respected.  In  fact,  he  was  unassailable,  and  I 
have  been  compelled  to  give  up  the  effort." 

"Would  you  like  to  learn  something  of  the 
truth  ?"  asked  the  stranger,  in  a  thrilling  voice. 

Despards  whole  soid  was  roused  by  this  ques- 
tion. 

"  More  than  any  thing  else,"  replied  he. 

"There  is  a  sand-bank,"  began  the  stranger, 
"  three  hundred  miles  south  of  the  island  of  Java, 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  Coffin  Island.  It  is 
so  called  on  account  of  a  rock  of  peculiar  shape 
at  '  ~ 'tern  extremity.  I  was  coming  from  the 
E  ly  way  to  England,  when  a  violent 

sto.  ^se,  and  I  Avas  cast  ashore  alone  upon 

that  island.  This  may  seem  extraordinary  to 
you,  but  what  I  have  to  tell  is  still  more  exti-aor- 
dinary.  I  found  food  and  water  there,  and  lived 
for  some  time.  At  last  another  hurricane  came 
and  blew  away  all  the  sand  from  a  mound  at  the 
western  end.  This  mound  had  been  piled  abi)ut 
a  wrecked  vessel — a  vessel  wrecked  twenty  years 
ago,  twenty  years  ago,"  he  repeated,  with  .'tart- 
ling  emphasis,  "  and  the  name  of  that  vessel  was 
the  Vishnu." 

"The  Vishnu!"  cried  Despard,  starting  to  his 
feet,  while  his  whole  frame  was  shaken  by  emo- 
tion at  this  strange  narrative.     "The  Vishnu!" 

"Yes,  the  Vishnu!"  continued  the  stranger. 
"  You  know  what  that  means.  For  many  years 
that  vessel  had  lain  there,  entombed  amidst  the 
sands,  until  at  last  I — on  that  lonely  isle — saw 
the  sands  swept  away  and  the  buried  ship  re- 
vealed. I  went  on  board.  I  entered  the  cabin. 
I  passed  through  it.  At  last  I  entered  a  room  at 
one  comer.  A  skeleton  lay  there.  Do  you  know 
whose  it  was  ?" 

"  Whose  ?"  cried  Despard,  in  a  frenzy  of  ex- 
citement. 

"  Your  father's!"  said  the  stranger,  in  an  aw- 
ful voice. 

"God  in  heaven!"  exclaimed  Despard,  and 
he  sank  back  into  his  seat. 

"  In  his  hand  he  held  a  manuscript,  which  was 
his  last  message  to  his  friends.  It  was  inclosed 
in  a  bottle.  The  storm  had  prevented  him  from 
throwing  it  overboard.  He  held  it  there  as  thougli 
waiting  for  some  one  to  take  it.  I  was  the  one 
appointed  to  that  task.  I  took  it.  I  read  it, 
and  now  that  I  have  arrived  in  England  I  have 
brought  it  to  you." 

"  Where  is  it?"  cried  Despard,  in  wild  excite' 
ment. 


178 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


"  Here,"  said  the  stranger,  und  he  laid  a  pack- 
age upon  the  table. 

Despard  seized  it,  and  tore  open  the  coverings. 
At  the  first  sight  he  recognized  the  handwriting 
of  his  father,  familiar  to  him  from  old  letters 
xMitten  to  him  when  he  was  a  child — letters 
\\  hich  he  had  always  preserved,  and  every  turn 
of  which  was  impressed  upon  his  memory.  The 
Hrst  glance  was  sufficient  to  impress  upon  his 
mind  the  conviction  that  the  stranger's  tale  was 
tnie. 

Withoui  another  word  he  began  to  read  it.  And 
n^  he  read  all  his  soul  became  associated  with  tiiat 
lonely  man,  drifting  in  his  drifting  ship.  There 
he  read  the  villainy  of  the  miscreant  who  had 
compassed  his  death,  and  the  despair  of  the  cast- 
away. 

That  sufferins:  man  was  his  o\vn  father.  It 
was  this  that  gave  intensity  to  his  thoughts  as  he 
raid.  The  dying  man  bequeathed  his  vengeance 
to  Ralph  Brandon,  and  iiis  blessing  to  his  son. 

Despard  read  over  the  manuscript  many  times. 
It  was  his  father's  words  to  himself. 

"I  am  in  haste,"  said  the  stranger.  "The 
manuscript  is  yours.  I  have  made  inquiries  for 
lialph  Brandon,  and  find  that  he  is  dead.  It  is 
for  you  to  do  as  seems  good.  You  are  a  clergy- 
mim,  but  you  are  also  a  man ;  and  a  father's 
wrongs  cry  to  Heaven  for  vengeance." 

"And  they  shall  be  avenged!"  exclaimed 
Despard,  striking  his  clenched  hand  upon  the 
table. 

"I  have  something  more  before  I  go,"  con- 
tinued the  stranger,  mournfully — "something 
which  you  will  prize  more  than  life.  It  was  worn 
next  your  father's  heart  till  he  died.  I  found  it 
there'"  ( 

Saying  this  he  handed  to  Despard  a  minia- 
ture, painted  on  enamel,  representing  a  beauti- 
ful woman,  whose  features  were  like  liis  own. 

"My  mother  I"  cried  Despard,  passionately, 
and  he.  covered  the  miniature  with  kisses. 

"  I  buried  your  father,"  said  the  stranger,  aft- 
er a  lon^r  pause.  "  His  remains  now  lie  on  Cof- 
fin Islanu,  in  their  last  resting-place." 

' '  And  who  are  you  ?  What  are  you  ?  How 
did  you  find  me  out?  What  is  your  object?" 
cried  Despard,  cagoriy. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Wheeler,"  said  the  stranger,  calm- 
ly;  "  and  I  come  to  give  you  these  things  in  or- 
(ior  to  fulfill  my  duty  to  the  dead.  It  remains 
for  vou  to  fulfill  yours." 

"'That  duty  shall  be  iulfilled !"  exclaimed 
Despard.  "The  law  does  not  help  me:  I  will 
help  myself.  I  know  some  of  these  men  at  least. 
I  will  do  the  duty  of  a  son." 

The  stranger  bowed  and  >vithdrew. 

Despard  paced  the  room  for  hours.     A  fierce 
thirst  for  vengeance  had  taken  possession  of  him.  | 
Again  and  again  he  read  the  manuscript,  and  [ 
after  each  reading  his  vengeful  feeling  became 
stronger.  I 

At  last  he  had  a  purjjose.  He  was  no  longer 
the  imbecile — the  crushed — the  hopeless.  In  the 
full  knowledge  of  his  father's  misery  his  own  be- 
came endurable. 

In  the  morning  he  saw  Lanarhetti  and  told  him 
all. 

•'But  who  is  the  stranger?"  Despard  asked 
in  wonder. 

"It  can  only  be  one  person,"  said  Langhetti, 
solemnly. 


"Who?" 

"Louis  Brandon.  He  and  no  other.  Who 
else  could  thus  have  been  chosen  to  find  the 
dead ?    He  has  his  wrongs  also  to  avenge." 

Despard  was  silent.  Overwhelming  thouglits 
crowded  upon  him.  Was  this  man  Louis  Bran- 
don? 

"We  must  find  him,"  said  he.  "We  mu.st 
gain  his  help  in  our  work.  We  must  also  tell 
him  about  Edith." 

"Yes,"  replied  Langhetti.  "But  no  doubt 
he  has  his  own  work  before  him ;  and  this  is  but 
part  of  his  plan,  to  rouse  you  from  inaction  lo 
vengeance." 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

■WHO   IS    HE? 

On  the  morning  aftor  tho  last  escape  of  Bea- 
trice, Clark  went  up  to  Brandon  Hall.  It  was 
about  nine  o'clock.  A  sullen  frown  was  on  his 
face,  which  was  pen-aded  by  an  expression  of 
savage  malignity.  A  deeply  preoccupied  look, 
as  though  he  were  altogether  absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts,  prevented  him  from  noticing  the 
half- smiles  which  the  servants  cast  at  one  an- 
other. 

Asgeelo  opened  the  door.  That  valuable  serv- 
ant was  at  his  post  as  usual.  Clark  brushed  past 
him  with  a  growl  and  entered  the  dining-room. 

Potts  was  standing  in  front  of  the  ^.re  with  a 
flushed  face  and  savage  eyes.  John  was  stroking 
his  dog,  and  appeared  quite  indifferent.  Clark, 
however,  was  too  much  taken  up  with  his  own 
thoughts  to  notice  Potts.  He  came  in  and  sat 
down  in  silence. 

"Well,"  said  Potts,  "did  you  do  that  busi- 
ness  ?*' 

"ko,"  growled  Clark. 

"No!"  cried  Potts.  "Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  didn't  follow  up  the  fellow  ?  ' 

"I  mean  to  say  it's  no  go,"  returned  Clark. 
"  I  did  what  I  could.  But  wlien  you  are  after  a 
man,  and  he  tums  out  to  be  the  Devil  himself, 
what  can  you  do  ?" 

At  these  words,  which  were  spoken  with  urr 
usual  excitement,  John  gave  a  low  laugh,  but 
said  nothing. 

"  You've  been  getting  rather  soft  lately,  it  seems 
to  me,"  said  Potts.  "At  anv  rate,  what  did  you 
do  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Clark,  slowly— " I  went  to  that 
inn — to  watch  the  fellow.  He  was  sitting  by  the 
fire,  taking  it  very  easy.  I  triad  to  make  out 
whether  I  had  ever  seen  him  before,  but  could 
not.  He  sat  by  the  fire,  and  wouldn't  say  a  word. 
I  tried  to  trot  him  out,  and  at  last  I  did  so.  He 
trotted  out  in  good  earnest,  and  if  any  man  was 
ever  kicked  at  and  ridden  rough-shod  over,  I'm 
that  individual.  He  isn't  a  man — he's  Beelze- 
bub. He  knows  every  thing.  He  began  in  a 
playful  way  l)y  taking  a  ])iece  of  cha'  coal  and 
writing  on  the  wall  some  marks  whicli  belong 
to  me.  and  which  I'm  a  little  delicate  about  let- 
ting people-  see ;  in  fact,  the  Botany  Bay  marks." 
■    "  Did  he  know  that?"  cried  Potts,  aghast. 

"  Not  only  knew  it,  but,  as  I  was  saying, 
marked  it  on  tlie  wall.  That's  a  sign  of  knowl- 
edge. And  for  fear  they  wouldn't  be  understood, 
he  kindly  explained  to  about  a  dozen  peojile  pres' 
ent  the  particidar  meaning  of  each." 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


173 


"  The  devil !"  said  John. 

"  That's  what  I  said  he  was,"  rejoined  Clark, 
dryly.  "  But  that's  nothing.  I  remember  when 
I  was  a  little  boy,"  ho  continued,  pensively, 
"  hearing  the  parson  read  about  some  handwrit- 
ing on  the  wall,  that  frightened  Beelzebub  him- 
self ;  but  I  tell  you  this  handwriting  on  the  wall 
used  me  up  a  good  deal  more  than  that  other. 
Still  what  followed  was  worse." 

Clark  paused  for  a  little  while,  and  then,  tak- 
ing a  long  breath,  went  on. 

"  He  proceeded  to  give  to  the  assembled  com- 
pany an  account  of  my  life,  particularly  that 
very  interesting  part  of  it  which  I  passed  on 
my  last  visit  to  Botany  Bay.  You  know  my 
escape." 

He  stopped  for  a  while. 

" Did  he  know  about  that,  too?*'  asked  Potts, 
with  some  agitation. 

"Johnnie,"  said  Clark,  "  he  knew  a  precious 
sight  more  than  you  do,  and  told  some  things 
which  I  had  forgotten  myself.  Why,  that  devil 
stood  up  there  and  slowly  told  the  company  not 
only  what  I  did  but  what  I  felt.  He  brought  it 
all  back.  He  told  how  I  looked  at  Stubbs,  and 
how  Stubbs  looked  at  me  in  the  boat.  He  told 
how  we  sat  looking  at  each  other,  each  in  our 
own  end  of  the  boat." 

Clark  stopped  again,  and  no  one  spoke  for  a 
long  time. 

"I  lost  my  breath  and  .an  out,"  he  resumed, 
"and  was  afraid  to  go  back.  I  did  so  at  last. 
It  was  .then  almost  midnight.  I  found  him  still 
sitting  there.  He  smiled  at  me  in  a  way  that 
fairly  made  my  blood  nin  cold.  '  Crocker,'  said 
he,  'sit  down.'" 

At  this  Pctts  and  John  looked  at  each  other 
in  horror. 

"  He  knows  that  too?"  said  John. 

"Every  thing,"  returned  Clark,  dejectedly. 
"Well,  when  he  said  that  I  looked  a  little  sur- 
prised, as  yon  may  be  sure. 

"  '  1  thought  you'd  be  back,'  said  he,  '  for  you 
want  to  see  me,  you  know.  You're  going  to  fol- 
low me,'  says  he.  'You've  got  your  pistols  all 
ready,  so,  as  I  always  like  to  oblige  a  friend,  I'll 
give  you  a  cliance.     Come.' 

"At  this  I  fairly  staggered. 

"  'Come,'  says  he,  'I've  got  all  that  money, 
and  Potts  wants  it  back.  And  you're  going  to 
get  it  from  me.     Come.' 

"  I  swear  to  you  I  could  not  move.  He  smiled 
at  me  as  before,  and  quietly  got  up  and  left  the 
house.  I  stood  for  some  time  fixed  to  the  spot. 
At  last  I  grew  reckless.  '  If  he's  the  devil  him- 
self,' says  I,  '  I'll  have  it  out  with  him.'  I  rushed 
out  and  followed  in  his  pursuit.  After  some 
time  I  overtook  him.  He  was  on  horseback,  but 
his  horse  was  walking.  He  heard  me  coming. 
'Ah,  Crocker,'  said  he,  quite  merrily,  'so you've 
come,  have  you?' 

"I  tore  my  pistol  from  my  pocket  and  fired. 
The  only  reply  was  a  loud  laugh.  He  went  on 
without  turning  his  head.  I  was  now  sure  that 
it  was  the  devil,  but  I  fired  my  other  pistol.  He 
gave  a  tremendous  laugh,  turned  his  horse,  and 
rode  full  at  me.  His  horse  seemed  as  large  as 
the  village  church.  Every  thing  swam  around, 
and  I  fell  headforemost  on  the  ground.  I  be- 
lieve I  lay  there  all  night.  When  I  came  to  it 
was  morning,  and  I  hurried  straight  here." 
.    As  he  ended  Clark  arose,  and,  going  to  the  side- 


board, poured  out  a  large  glass  of  brandy,  which 
he  drank  raw. 

"The  fact  is,"  said  John,  after  long  thought, 
"you've  been  tricked.  This  fellow  has  doctored 
your  pistols  and  frightened  you. " 

"  But  I  loaded  them  mvself,"  replied  Clark. 

"When?" 

"  Oh,  I  always  keep  them  loaded  in  my  room. 
I  tried  them,  and  found  the  charge  was  in  them." 

"  Oh,  somebody's  fixed  them." 

"  I  don't  think  half  as  much  about  the  pistols 
as  about  what  he  told  me.  What  devil  coidd 
have  put  all  that  into  his  head?  Answer  me 
that,"  said  Clark. 

"Somebody's  at  work  around  us,"  said  John. 
"I  feel  it  in  my  bone«." 

"We're  getting  usti  up,"  said  Potts.  " The 
girl's  gone  again."  « 

"The  girl!     Gone!" 

"Yes,  and  Mrs.  Compton  too." 

"The  devil!" 

"  I'd  rather  lose  the  girl  than  Mrs,  Compton ; 
but  when  they  both  vanish  the  same  night  what 
are  you  to  think  ?" 

"  I  think  the  devil  is  loose." 

' '  I'm  afraid  he's  turned  against  us,"  said  Potts, 
in  a  regretful  tone.  "He's  got  tired  of  helping 
us." 

"Do  none  of  the  servants  know  any  thing 
about  it?" 

"  No — none  of  them." 

"  Have  you  asked  them  all  T 

"Yes." 

"Doesn't  that  new  ser\'ant,  the  Injin?" 

"No;  they  all  went  to  bed  at  twelve.  Vijal 
was  up  as  late  as  two.  They  all  swear  that  every 
thing  was  quiet." 

"  Did  they  go  out  through  the  doors  ?" 

"  The  doors  were  all  locked  as  usual." 

"There's  treachery  somewhere!"  cried  John, 
with  more  excitement  than  usual. 

The  others  were  silent. 

"  I  believe  that  the  girl's  at  the  bottom  of  It 
all,"  said  John.  "We've  been  trying  to  take 
her  down  ever  since  she  came,  but  it's  my  belief 
that  we'll  end  by  getting  took  down  oureelves.  I 
wab  against  her  being  sent  for  from  the  first.  I 
scented  bad  luck  in  her  at  the  other  side  of  the 
world.  We've  been  acting  like  fools.  We  ought 
to  have  silenced  ker  at  first." 

"No,"  rejoined  Potts,  gloomily.  "There's 
somebody  at  work  deeper  than  she  is.  Some- 
body— but  who  ? — who  ?" 

"  Nobody  but  the  devil,"  said  Clark,  firmly. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  that  Italian,"  con- 
tinued Potts.  "He's  the  only  man  living  that 
would  bother  his  head  about  the  girl.  They  know 
a  good  deal  between  them.  I  think  he's  man- 
aged some  of  this  last  business.  He's  humbugged 
us.  It  isn't  the  devil;  it's  this  Italian.  We 
must  look  out ;  he'll  be  around  here  again  per- 
haps.*' 

Clark's  eyes  brightened. 

"The  next  time,"  said  he,  "  I'll  load  my  pi» 
tols  fresh,  and  then  see  if  he'll  escape  me !" 

At  this  a  noise  was  heard  in  the  hall.  Potts 
went  out.  The  servanta»had  been  scouring  the 
grounds  as  before,  but  with  no  result. 

"No  use,"  said  John.  "I  tried  it  with  my 
dog.  He  went  straight  down  through  the  gate, 
and  a  little  distance  outside  the  scent  was  lost. 
I  tried  him  with  Mrs.  Compton  too.     They  both 


m 


COKD  AND  CHEESE. 


went  together,  and  of  course  had  horses  or  car- 
riages there." 

*'  What  does  the  porter  say?"  asked  Clark. 

"  He  swears  that  he  was  up  till  two,  and  then 
went  to  bed,  and  that  nobody  was  near  the  gate." 

"Well,  we  can't  do  any  thing,''  said  I'o.ts; 
"  but  I'll  send  some  of  the  servants  off  to  see 
what  they  can  hear.  The  scent  was  lost  so  soon 
that  we  can't  tell  what  direction  they  took." 

"You'll  never  get  her  again,'  said  John; 
*'  she's  gone  for  good  tliis  time." 

Fotts  swore  a  deep  oath  and  relapsed  into  si- 
lence. After  a  time  they  all  went  down  to  the 
bank. 


^  CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE    KUN   ON   THE   BANK. 

Not  long  after  the  bank  opened  a  number  of 
people  came  in  who  av  ked  for  gold  in  retimi  for 
some  bank-notes  which  they  otfeied.  This  was 
an  unusual  circumstance.  'I'he  people  ali-o  were 
strangers.  Totts  wondered  what  it  could  mean. 
There  was  no  help  for  it,  however.  The  gold 
was  paid  out,  and  I'otts  and  his  fi  lends  began  to 
feel  somewhat  alarmed  at  the  thought  which  now 
presented  itself  for  tiie  first  time  that  their  very 
Jarge  circulation  of  notes  might  be  returned  upon 
them.     He  communicated  this  fear  to  Clark. 

"  How  much  gold  have  vou?" 

"Very  little."       -         '-..... 

"How  much?" 

"Thirty  thousand." 

"Phew!"  said  Clark,  "and  nearly  two  hun- 
I'red  thousand  out  in  notes !' 

Potts  was  silent. 

"  What  '11  you  do  if  there  is  a  run  on  the  bank  ?" 

"Oh,  there  won't  be." 

"Why  not?" 

"  My  credit  is  too  good." 

"  Your  credit  wont  be  worth  a  rush  if  people 
know  this.'' 

While  they  talked  persons  kept  dropping  in. 
Most  of  the  villagers  and  people  of  the  neighbor- 
hood brought  back  the  notes,  demanding  gold. 
By  about  twelve  o'clock  the  influx  was  constant. 

Potts  began  to  feel  alarmed.  He  went  out, 
and  tried  to  bully  some  of  the  villagers.  They 
did  not  seem  to  i)ay  any  attenlion  to  him,  how- 
ever. Potts  went  back  to  his  parlor  discomfited, 
vowing  vengeance  against  those  who  had  thus 
slighted  him.  The  worst  of  these  was  the  tailor, 
who  brought  in  notes  to  the  extent  of  a  thousand 
pounds,  and  when  Potts  ordered  him  out  and  told 
him  to  wait,  only  laughed  in  his  face. 

"  Haven't  you  got  gold  enough  ?'  said  the  tai- 
lor, with  a  sneer.  "  Are  you  afraid  of  the  bank  ? 
Well,  old  Potts,  so  am  I.'"' 

At  this  there  was  a  general  laugh  among  the 
people. 

The  bank  clerks  did  not  at  all  sympathize  with 
the  bank.  They  were  too  eager  to  pay  out. 
Potts  had  to  check  them.  He  called  them  in  his 
l)arlor,  and  ordered  them  to  pay  out  more  slowly. 
They  all  declared  that  they  couldn't. 

The  day  dragged  otF  till  at  last  three  o'clock 
came.  Fifteen  thousand  pounds  had  been  paid 
out.  Potts  fell  into  deep  despondency.  Clark 
had  remained  throughout  the  whole  morning. 

"There's  going  to  be  a  run  on  the  bank?" 
said  he.  '  "  It's  only  begun." 


Potts's  sole  answer  was  a  curse- 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?"  he  asked. 

"You'll  have  to  help  me,"  replied  Potts- 
"  You've  got  something." 

"  I've  got  fifty  thousand  pounds  in  the  Plym- 
outh Bank." 

"You'll  have  to  let  me  have  it."     • 

Clark  hesitated. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  he.         •    ■ 

"U — n  it,  man,  I'll  give  j'on  any  security  you 
wish.  I've  got  more  security  than  I  know  what 
to  do  with." 

' '  Well,  "  said  Clark,  "  I  don't  know.  There's 
a  risk." 

"I  only  want  it  for  a  few  days.  I'll  send 
down  stock  to  my  London  broker  and  have  it 
sold.  It  will  give  me  hundreds  of  thousands — 
twice  as  much  as  all  the  bank  issue.  Then  I'll  pay 
u])  these  devils  well,  and  that  d — d  tailor  worst 
of  all.  I  swear  I'll  send  it  all  down  to-day,  and 
have  every  bit  of  it  sold.  If  there's  going  to  be 
a  run,  I'll  l)e  ready  for  them." 

*'  How  much  have  you  ?" 

"Ill  send  it  all  down — though  I'm  devilish 
Sony,'  continued  Potts.  "  How  much  ?  why, 
see  here;"  and  he  penciled  down  the  following 
figures  on  a  piece  of  paper,  which  he  showed  to 
Clark : 

Cnlifomla  Company XIOO.OOO 

Mexican  bonds 00,(100 

Guatemnlado 60,000 

Venezuela  do 60,000 

£250,000 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  my  boy?"  said 
Potts. 

"  Well,"  returned  Clark,  cautiously,  "  I  don't 
like  them  American  names. " 

"Why,"  said  Potts,  "the  stock  is  at  a  pre- 
mium. I've  been  getting  from  twenty  to  twenty- 
five  per  cent,  dividends.  They'll  sell  for  three 
hundred  thousand  nearly.  I'll  sefl  them  all.  I'll 
sell  them  all,"  he  cried.  "  1)11  have  gold  enough 
to  put  a  stop  to  this  sort  of  thing  forever." 

"  I  thought  you  had  some  French  and  Russian 
bonds,"  said  Clai-k. 

' '  I  gave  those  to  that  devil  who  had  the — the 
papers,  you  know.  He  consented  to  take  them, 
and  I  was  veiy  glad,  for  they  paid  less  than  the 
others." 

Clark  was  silent. 

"Why,  man,  /hat  are  you  thinking  about? 
Don't  you  know  that  I'm  good  for  two  millions, 
what  with  my  estate  and  my  stock  ?" 

"  But  you  owe  an  infernal  lot." 

"And  haven't  I  notes  and  other  securities 
from  every  body  ?" 

"  Yes,  from  every  body ;  but  how  can  you  get 
hold  of  them  ?" 

'*  The  first  people  of  the  county!" 

"And  as  poor  as  rats.' 

"  London  merchants !" 

"  Who  are  they  ?  How  can  you  get  back  your 
money?" 

"^mithers  &  Co.  will  let  me  have  what  I 
want." 

"  If  Smithers  &  Co.  knew  the  present  state  of 
affairs  I  rather  think  that  they'd  back  down." 

"Pooh!  What!  Back  down  from  a  man  with 
my  means !  Nonsense !  They  know  how  rich  I 
am,  or  they  never  would  have  begun.  Come, 
don't  be  a  fool.  It  '11  take  three  days  to  get  gold 
for  my  stock,  and  if  you  don't  help  me  the  bank 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


iVs 


may  stop  before  I  get  it.  If  you'll  help  me  for 
three  days  I'll  pay  you  well." 

"  How  much  will  you  give?" 

"Ill  give  ten  thousand  pounds — there!  I 
don't  mind." 

"Done.  Give  me  your  note  for  sixty  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  111  let  you  have  the  fifty  thou- 
sand for  three  days. " 

"All  right.  You've  got  me  where  my  hair  is 
short ;  but  I  don't  mind.  When  can  I  have  the 
money  ?" 

' '  The  day  after  to-morrow.  I'll  go  to  Plj-m- 
outh  now,  get  the  money  to-morrow,  iind  you  can 
use  it  the  next  day. " 

"All  right;  I'll  send  down  John  to  London 
with  the  stc-k,  and  he'll  bring  up  the  gold  at 
once." 

Clark  started  off  immediately  for  Plymouth, 


and  not  long  after  John  went  away  to  London. 
Potts  remained  to  await  the  storm  which  he, 
dreaded. 

The  next  day  came.  The  bank  opened  late 
on  purpose.  Potts  put  up  a  notice  that  it  was  to 
be  closed  that  day  at  twelve,  on  account  of  the 
absence  of  some  of  the  directors. 

At  about  eleven  the  crowd  of  people  began  to 
make  their  appearance  as  before.  Their  de- 
mands were  somewhat  larger  than  on  the  previ- 
ous day.  Before  twelve  ten  thousand  pounds 
had  been  paid.  At  twelve  the  bank  was  shut  in 
the  faces  of  the  clamorous  people,  in  accordance 
with  the  notice. 

Strangers  were  there  from  all  parts  of  the 
county.  The  village  inn  was  crowded,  and  a 
large  number  of  carriages  was  outside.  Potts 
began  to  look  forward  to  the  next  day  with  deep 


I7C 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


anxiety.  Only  five  thousand  pounds  remained 
in  the  bank.  One  man  had  come  with  notes  to 
the  extent  of  five  thousand,  and  had  only  been 
got  rid  of  by  the  shutting  of  the  banlL.  He  left, 
vowing  vengeance. 

To  I'ottsH  immense  relief  Clark  made  his  ap- 
j)eftrance  early  on  the  following  day.  He  had 
brought  the  money.  Potts  gave  him  his  note  for 
sixty  thousand  pounds,  and  the  third  day  began. 
By  ten  o'clock  the  doors  were  besieged  by  the 
largest  crowd  that  had  ever  assembled  in  this 
({uiet  village.  Another  host  of  lookers-on  had 
collected.  When  the  doors  were  opened  they 
poured  in  with  a  rush. 

The  demands  on  this  third  day  were  very  large. 
The  man  with  the  five  thousand  had  fought  his 
way  to  the  counter  first,  and  clamored  to  be  i)aid. 
The  noise  and  confusion  were  overpowering.  Ev- 
ery body  was  cursing  the  bank  or  laughing  at  it. 
Each  one  felt  doubtful  about  getting  his  pay. 
Potts  tried  to  be  dignified  for  a  time.  He  order- 
ed them  to  be  quiet,  and  assured  them  that  they 
would  all  be  paid.  His  voice  was  drowned  in 
the  wild  uproar.  The  clerks  counted  out  the 
gold  as  rapidly  as  possible,  in  spite  of  the  re- 
monstrances of  Potts,  who  on  three  occasions 
called  them  all  into  the  parlor,  and  threatened  to 
dismiss  them  unless  they  counted  more  slowly. 
His  threats  were  disregarded.  They  went  back, 
and  paid  out  as  rapidly  as  before.  The  amounts 
required  ranged  from  five  or  ten  pounds  to  thou- 
>  sands  of  pounds.  At  last,  after  paying  out  thou- 
1  sands,  one  man  came  up  who  had  notes  to  the 
amount  of  ten  thousand  pounds.  This  was  the 
largest  demand  that  had  yet  been  made.  It  was 
doubtful  whether  there  was  so  large  an  amount 
left.  Potts  came  out  to  see  him.  There  was  no 
!  help  for  it ;  he  had  to  parley  with  the  enemy. 
'  He  told  him  that  it  was  within  a  few  minutes 
I  of  three,  and  that  it  would  take  an  hour  at  least 
I  to  count  out  so  much — would  he  not  wait  till  the 
,  next  day  ?  There  would  be  ample  time  then. 
The  man  had  no  objection.  It  was  all  the 
same  to  him.  He  went  ort  with  his  bundle  of 
notes  through  the  cl-owd,  telling  them  that  the 
bank  could  not  pay  him.  This  intelligence  made 
the  excitement  still  greater.  There  was  a  fierce 
rush  to  the  counter.  The  clerks  worked  hard, 
and  paid  out  what  they  could  in  spite  of  the  hints 
and  even  the  threats  of  Potts,  till  at  length  the 
bank  clock  struck  the  hour  of  three.  It  had  been 
put  forward  twenty  minutes,  and  there  was  a 
great  riot  among  the  people  on  that  account,  but 
they  could  not  do  any  thing.  The  bank  was 
closed  for  the  day,  and  they  had  to  depart. 

Both  Potts  and  Clark  now  waited  eagerly  for 
the  return  of  John.  He  was  expected  before  the 
next  day.  He  ought  to  be  in  by  midnight. 
After  waiting  impatiently  for  hours  they  at  length 
drove  out  to  see  if  they  could  find  him. 

About  twelve  miles  from  Brandon  they  m"t 
him  iit  midnight  with  a  team  of  horses  and  a 
number  of  men,  all  of  whom  were  armed. 
"  Have  you  got  it  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  what  there  is  of  it." 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 
"I'm  too  tired  to  explain.    Wait  till  we  get 
home." 

It  WES  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  they 
reached  the  bank.  The  gold  was  taken  out  and 
deix)sited  in  the  vanlts,  and  the  three  went  up  to 
the  HalL      They  brought  out  brandy  and  re- 


freshed themselves,  after  which  John  remarked, 
in  his  usual  laconic  style, 

"   'lu've  been  and  gone  and  done  it." 

"What?"  asked  Potts,  somewhat  puzzled. 

♦'With  your  B|)eculations  in  stocks." 

•'What  about  them?" 

"Nothing,"  said  John,  "only  they  happen  to 
be  at  a  small  discount." 

"A  discount?" 

"Slightly." 

Potts  was  silent. 

"  How  much?"  asked  Clark. 

"I  have  a  statement  here,"  said  John. 
"When  I  got  to  London,  I  saw  the  broker. 
He  said  that  American  stocks,  particularly  those 
which  I  held,  had  undergone  a  great  deprecia- 
tion. He  assured  me  that  it  was  only  temporary, 
that  the  dividends  which  these  stocks  paid  were 
enough  to  raise  them  in  a  short  time,  perhaps  in 
a  few  weeks,  and  that  it  was  madness  to  sell  out 
now.  He  declared  that  it  would  ruin  the  credit 
of  the  Brandon  Bank  if  it  were  known  that  we 
sold  out  at  such  a  fearful  sacrifice,  and  advised 
me  to  raise  the  money  at  a  less  cost. 

"  Well,  I  could  only  think  of  Smithers  &  Co. 
I  went  to  their  office.  They  were  all  away.  I 
saw  one  of  the  clerks  who  said  they  had  gone  to 
see  about  some  Russian  loan  or  other,  so  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  back  to  the  broker. 
He  assured  me  again  that  it  was  an  unheard  of 
sacrifice ;  that  these  very  stocks  which  I  held  had 
fallen  terribly,  he  knew  not  how,  and  advised 
me  to  do  any  thing  rather  than  make  such  a  sac- 
rifice. But  I  could  do  nothing.  Gold  was  what 
I  wanted,  and  since  Smithers  &  Co.  were  away 
this  was  the  only  way  to  get  it." 

"  Well ! "  cried  Potts,  eagerly.  "Did  you  get 
it?" 

"  You  saw  that  I  got  it.  I  sold  out  at  a  cost 
that  is  next  to  ruin." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Well,"  said  John,  "I  will  give  you  the  state- 
ment of  the  broker,"  and  he  drew  from  his  pock- 
et a  paper  which  he  handed  to  the  others.  They 
looked  at  it  eagerly. 

It  was  as  follows : 

100  shares  California  ©jEIOOO  each.   66  per 

cent,  discount X35,000 

50  shares  Mexican.    70  per  cent,  discount    12,500 

50  shares  Guatemala.    80  per  cent  dis- 
count      10,000 

60  shares  Venezuela.  80  per  cent,  discount   10,000 

£67,000 

The  faces  of  Potts  and  Clark  grew  black  as 
night  as  they  read  this.  A  d»f  p  ".xecration  burst 
from  Potts.     Clark  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"The  bank's  blo\vn  up!"  said  he. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  rejoined  Potts. 

"Why  not?" 

"There's  gold  enough  to  pay  all  that's  likely 
to  be  offered. " 

"  How  much  more  do  you  think  will  be  offer- 
ed?" 

"  Not  much ;  it  stands  to  reason." 

"  It  stands  to  reason  that  every  note  which 
you've  issued  will  be  sent  back  to  you.  So  III 
trouble  you  to  give  me  my  sixty  thousand ;  and 
I  advise  you  as  a  friend  to  hold  on  to  the  rest.'' 

"Clark!"  said  Potts,  "you're  getting  timider 
and  timider.  You  ain't  got  any  more  pluck  these 
times  than  a  kitten." 

"  It's  a  time  when  a  man's  got  to  be  careful 
of  his  earnings, "  said  Clark.     ' '  How  much  have 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


Ill 


joa  oat  in  notes?  Yon  told  me  once  you  had 
out  about  XI 80,U00,  perhaps  more.  Well,  you've 
already  had  to  redeem  about  X75,<)(M).  That 
leaves  j£l06,00()  yet,  and  you've  only  got  £67,- 
00()  to  pay  it  with.  What  have  you  gut  to  say 
to  that  ?■' 

"Well!"  said  Potts.  "The  Brandon  Bank 
may  go — but  what  then?  You  forget  that  I 
have  the  Brandon  estate.  That's  worth  two  mill- 
ions." 

*'  You  got  it  for  two  hundred  thousand." 

"  Because  it  was  thrown  away,  and  dropped 
into  my  hands. " 

"  It  11  be  thrown  away  again  at  this  rate.  You 
owe  Smithers  &  Co." 

"Pooh!  that's  all  offset  by  securities  which  I 
hold." 

"  Queer  securities !" 

"All  good,"  said  Potts.  "All  first-rate.  It'U 
be  all  right.     We'll  have  to  put  it  through." 

"  But  what  if  it  isn't  all  right?"  asked  Clark, 
saragely. 

"You  forget  that  I  jiave  Smithers  &  Co.  to 
faUbackon.  " 

"If  your  bank  breaks,  there  is  an  end  of 
Smithers  &  Co." 

"  Oh  no.  I've  got  this  estate  to  fall  back  on, 
and  they  know  it.  I  can  easily  explain  to  them. 
If  they  had  only  been  in  town  I  shouldn't  have 
had  to  make  this  sacrifice.  You  needn't  feel 
troubled  about  your  money.  I'll  give  you  se- 
curity on  the  estate  to  any  amount.  I'll  give  you 
security  for  seventy  thousand,"  said  Potts. 

Clark  thought  for  a  while. 

"WeU:"  said  he,  "it's  a  risk,  but  111  run 
it." 

"  There  isn't  time  to  get  a  lawyer  now  to  make 
out  the  papers;  but  whenev^  you  fetch  one  111 
do  it." 

"I'll  get  one  to-day,  and  you'll  sign  the  papers 
this  evening.  In  my  opinion  by  that  time  the 
bank  '11  be  shut  up  for  good,  and  you're  a  fool 
for  your  pains.  You're  simply  throwing  away 
what  gold  you  have." 

Potts  went  down  not  long  after.  It  was  the 
fourth  day  of  the  run.  Miscellaneous  callers 
thronged  the  place,  but  the  amounts  were  not 
large.  In  two  hours  not  more  than  five  thou- 
sand were  paid  out. 

At  length  a  man  came  in  with  a  carpet-bag. 
He  pulled  out  a  vast  quantity  of  notes. 

"  How  much  ?"  asked  the  clerk,  blandly. 

"Thirty  thousand  pounds,"  said  the  man. 

Potts  heard  this  and  came  out. 

' '  How  much  ?"  he  asked. 

"Thirty  thousand  pounds." 

"  Do  you  want  it  in  gold  ?" 

"Of  course." 

"  Will  you  take  a  draft  on  Messrs.  Smithers 
&  Co.  ?" 

"No,  I  war-  ^old." 
•  While  Po'  was  talking  to  this  man  another 
was  waiting,  patiently  beside  him.  Of  course 
this  imperative  claimant  had  to  be  paid  or  else 
the  bank  would  have  to  stop,  and  this  was  a 
casualty  which  Potts  could  not  yet  face  with 
calmness.  Before  it  came  to  that  he  was  de- 
termined to  pay  out  his  last  sovereign. 

On  paying  the  thirty  thousand  pouhds  it  was 
found  that  there  were  only  two  bags  left  of  two 
thousand  pounds  each. 

The  other  man  who  had  waited  stood  calmly. 


while  the  one  who  had  t)een  paid  was  making 
arrangements  about  conveying  nis  money  away. 

It  was  now  two  o'clock.  The  stranger  said 
quietly  to  the  clerk  opposite  that  he  wanted 
gold. 

"  How  much?"  said  the  clerk,  with  the  same 
blandness.    ' 

"Forty  thousand  pounds, "~  answered  the 
stranger. 

"^orry  we  can't  accommodate  yon,  Sir,"  re- 
turned the  clerk. 

Potts  had  heard  this  and  came  forward. 

"  Won't  yoii  take  ti  draft  on  Ix)ndon  ?"  said  he. 

"  Can't,"  replied  the  man ;  "  I  was  ordered  to 
get  gold." 

"  A  draft  on  Smithers  &  Co.  ?" 

"Couldn't  take  even  Bank  of  England  notes," 
said  the  strangitr ;  "I'm  only  an  agent.  If  you 
can't  accommodate  me  I'm  s<jrry,  I'm  sure." 

Potts  was  silent.  His  face  was  ghastly.  As 
much  agony  as  such  a  man  could  endure  was 
felt  by  him  at  that  moment. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  the  shutters  were  up ; 
and  outside  the  door  stood  a  wild  and  riotous 
crowd,  the  most  noisy  of  whom  was  the  tailor. 

The  Brandon  Bank  had  failed. 


CHAPTER  L. 


THE  BANK   DIRECTORS. 


The  bank  doors  were  closed,  and  the  bank  di- 
rectors were  left  to  their  own  reflections.  Clark 
had  been  in  through  the  day,  and  at  the  critical 
moment  his  feelings  had  overpowered  him  so 
much  that  he  felt  compelled  to  go  over  to  the  inn 
to  get  something  to  drink,  wherewith  he  might 
refresh  himself  and  keep  up  his  spirits. 

Potts  and  John  remaineid  in  the  bank  parlor. 
The  clerks  had  gone.  Potts  was  in  that  state 
of  dejection  in  wl  ich  even  liquor  was  not  desira- 
ble.    John  showed  his  usual  nonchalance. 

"Well,  Johnnie,"  said  Potts,  after  a  long  si- 
lence, "we're  used  up!" 

"  "The  bank's  bursted,  that's  a  fact.  You  were 
a  fool  for  fighting  it  out  so  long." 

"J  might  as  well.  I  was  responsible,  at  any 
rate." 

"  You  might  have  kept  your  gold." 

' '  Then  my  estate  would  have  been  good.  Be- 
sides, I  hoped  to  fight  through  this  difficulty. 
In  fact,  I  hadn't  any  thing  else  to  do." 

"Whvnot?" 

"  Smithers  &  Co." 

"Ah!  yes." 

"They'll  be  ^own  on  me  now.  That's  what 
I  was  afraid  of  all  along." 

"  How  much  do  you  owe  them?" 

"  Seven  hundred  and  two  thousand  pounds." 

"The  devil!  I  thought  it  was  only  five  hun- 
dred thousand." 

"  It's  been  growing  eveiy  day.  It's  a  dread- 
ful dangerous  thing  to  have  unlimited  credit." 

' '  Well,  you've  got  something  as  an  offset.  Tha 
debts  due  the  bank." 

"Johnnie,"  said  Potts,  taking  a  long  breath, 
"since  Clark  isn't  here  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  my  candid  opinion  is  them  debts  isn't  worth 
a  rush.  A  great  crowd  of  people  came  here  for 
money.  I  didn't  hardly  ask  a  question.  I 
shelled  out  royally.     I  wanted  to  be  known,  so 


178 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


m  to  get  into  PRrliament  soine  duy.  I  did  what 
U  called  'k<>>"R  >t  l>lind.'  ' 

"  How  much  i*  owing  yoii  ?" 

"The  bool(«  ray  live  liundrcd  and  thirteen 
thoiiwnd  pounds — lutt  it'rt  duuhtfu!  it'  I  ouii  get 
any  of  it.  And  now  ^initheni  &,  Co.  will  be 
down  on  mo  at  once." 

"  What  do  you  intend  to  do^" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Haven't  voii  thought?" 

"No,  I  coiddn't." 

"Well,  I  have." 

"What?" 

"  You'll  have  to  try  to  compromise." 

"  What  if  they  won't  ?" 

John  tthnigged  his  Hhoulders,  and  naid  nothing. 

"After  all,"  resumed  I'ottw,  hopefully,  "it 
can't  l>e  so  bad.  The  estate  h  w  orth  two  millions. " 

"I'ooh!" 

"Isn't  it?" 

"Of  course  not.  Tou  know  what  you  bought 
it  for." 

" 'I'hat's  because  it  was  thrown  away." 

"  Well,  it  '11  have  to  be  thrown  away  again." 

"Oh,  Smithers  &  Co.  '11  be  easy.  I'hey  don't 
c^re  for  money. " 

"  I'eihai)8  so.  The  fact  is,  I  don't  understand 
Smithers  &  Co.  at  all.  I've  tried  to  see  through 
their  little  game,  but  can't  l>egin  to  do  it." 

"Oh,  that's  easy  enough!  They  knew  I  was 
rich,  and  let  me  have  what  money  1  wanted." 

John  looked  doubtful. 

At  this  moment  a  rap  was  heard  at  the  back 
door. 

"  Thero  comes  Clark !"  said  he. 

Potts  opened  the  door.  Clark  entered.  His 
face  was  flushed,  and  his  eyes  bloodshot. 

"See  here,"  said  he,  mysteriously,  as  he  en- 
tered the  room. 

"What?"  asked  the  others,  anxiously. 

"There's  two  chaps  at  the  inn.  One  is  the 
/talion— " 

"Langhetti!" 

"Ay,"  said  Clark,  gloomily;  "and  the  other 
is  his  mate — that  fellow  that  helped  him  to  carry 
off  the  gal.  They've  done  it  again  this  time,  and 
my  opinion  is  that  these  fello\('s  are  at  the  bottom 
of  all  our  troubles.    You  know  whose  son  he  is. " 

Potts  and  John  exchanged  glances. 

''I  went  after  that  devil  once^  and  I'm  going 
to  try  it  again.  This  time  111  take  some  one 
who  isn't  afraid  of  the  devil.  Johnnie,  is  the 
dog  at  the  Hall  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  All  right !"  said  Clark.  "  111  be  even  with 
this  fellow  yet,  if  he  is  in  league  with  the  devil." 

With  these  words  Clark  went  .out,  and  left  the 
two  together.  A  glance  of  savage  exultation 
passed  over  the  face  of  Potts. 

"If  he  comes  back  successful,"  said  he,  "all 
right,  and  if  he  doesn't,  why  then" —   He  paused. 

"If  he  doesn't  come  back,"  said  John,  finish- 
ing the  sentence  for  him,  "  whv  then — all  right- 
er.' 


CHAPTER  LI. 

A  STRUGGLE. 


All  the  in-esolution  which  for  a  time  had  char- 
acteriEed  Despard  had  vanished  before  the  shock 
of  that  great  discoveiy  which  his  father's  manu- 


script had  revealed  to  him.  One  purpcwe  now  lay 
clearly  and  vividly  Ifvfore  him,  one  which  to  so 
loyal  and  devoted  a  nature  an  his  was  the  holiest 
duty,  and  that  was  vengeance  on  his  father's  mur- 
derers. 

In  this  pur|>orK!  he  took  refuge  from  his  own 
grief;  he  cast  aside  liisown  longings,  his  anguish, 
his  despair.  Liiiiglietti  wixhed  to  search  after  his 
"  nice;"  Despard  wished  to  tind  those  whom  his 
dead  father  liiid  denounced  to  him.  In  the  in- 
tensity of  his  pui'iioso  he  was  careless  as  to  the 
means  by  which  that  vengeance  should  be  ac- 
com|)lished.  He  thought  not  whether  it  would 
be  better  to  trust  to  the  slow  action  of  the  l&w,  or 
to  take  the  task  into  his  own  hands.  His  only 
wish  was  to  \>o  confronted  with  either  of  these 
men,  or  tM)th  of  them. 

It  was  with  this  fueling  in  his  heart  that  he  set 
out  Avith  Langhetti,  and  the  two  went  once  more 
in  company  to  the  village  of  lirandon,  where  they 
arrived  on  the  last  day  of  the  "run  on  the  bank." 

He  did  not  know  exactly  what  it  would  be  best 
to  do  first.  His  one  idea  was  to  go  to  the  Hall, 
and  confront  the  nnirderers  in  their  own  place. 
Langhetti,  however,  urged  the  need  of  help  from 
the  civil  magistrate.  It  was  while  they  were  de- 
lilierating  about  this  that  a  letter  was  brought  in 
addressed  to  the  Hev.  Vourtenny  Desj  ,rd. 

Despard  did  not  recognize  the  handwriting. 
In  some  surj)ri8e  how  any  one  should  know  that 
he  was  here  he  opened  the  letter,  and  his  sur- 
prise was  still  greater  as  he  read  the  following : 

"Sir, — There  are  two  men  here  whom  you 
seek — one  Potts,  the  other  Clark.  You  can  see 
them  both  at  any  time. 

"The  young  lady  whom  yon  and  Signer  Lan- 
ghetti f(jrmeily  rescued  has  escaped,  and  is  now 
in  safety  at  Denton,  a  village  not  more  than 
twenty  miles  away.  She  lives  in  the  last  cot- 
tage on  the  left-liand  side  of  the  road,  close  by 
the  sea.     There  is  an  American  elm  in  front. " 

There  was  no  signature. 

Despard  handed  it  in  silence  to  Langhetti,  who 
read  it  eagerly.  Joy  spread  over  his  face.  He 
started  to  his  feet. 

' '  I  must  go  at  once, "  said  he,  excitedly.  ' '  Will 
you  ? " 

' '  No, "  replied  Despard.  ' '  You  had  better  go. 
I  must  stay ;  my  puqiose  is  a  different  one." 

"But  do  not  vou  also  wish  to  secure  the  safety 
of  Bice'" 

"Of  course ;  but  I  shall  not  be  needed.  You 
will  be  enough." 

Langhetti  tried  to  persuade  him,  but  Despard 
w  as  immovable.  For  himself  he  was  too  impa- 
tient to  wait.  He  determined  to  set  out  at  once. 
He  could  not  get  a  carriage,  but  he  managed  to 
obtain  a  horse,  and  with  this  he  set  out.  It  was 
about  the  time  when  the  bank  had  dosed. 

Just  before  his  departure  Despard  saw  a  man 
come  from  the  bank  and  enter  the  inn.  He  knew 
the  face,  for  he  had  seen  it  when  here  before.  It 
was  Clark.  At  the  sight  of  this  face  all  his  fierc« 
est  instinct  awoke  within  him — a  deep  thirst  ft? 
vengeance  arose.  He  could  not  lose  sight  of 
this  man.  He  determined  to  track  him,  and  thuj< 
by  active  pursuit  to  do  something  toward  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  purpose. 

He  watched  him,  therefore,  as  he  entered  the 
inn,  and  caught  a  hasty  glance  which  CUrk  di- 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


m 


rected  at  himself  and  Langhetti.  He  did  not 
understand  the  meaning  of  the  scowl  that  passed 
over  the  ruffian's  face,  nor  did  Clark  understand 
the  full  meaning  of  that  gloomy  frown  which  low- 
ered over  Despard's  brow  as  ills  eyes  blazed  wrath- 
fully  and  menacingly  upon  him. 

Clark  came  out  and  went  to  the  bank.  On 
quitting  the  bank  Despard  saw  him  looking  back 
at  Langhetti,  who  was  just  leaving.  He  then 
watched  him  till  he  went  up  to  the  Hall. 

In  about  half  an  hour  Clark  came  back  on 
horseback  followed  by  a  dog.  He  talked  for  a 
while  with  the  landlord,  and  then  went  otf  at  a 
slow  trot. 

On  questioning  the  landlord  Despard  found 
thnt  Clark  had  asked  him  about  the  direction 
which  Langhetti  had  taken.  The  idea  at  once 
flashed  upon  him  that  possibly  Clark  wished  to 


pursue  Langhetti,  in  order  to  find  out  about  Bea- 
trice. He  determined  on  pursuit,  Iwth  for  Lan- 
ghetti's  sake  and  his  own. 

He  followed,  therefore,  not  far  behind  Clark, 
riding  at  first  rapidly  till  he  caught  sight  of  him 
at  the  summit  of  a  hill  in  front,  and  then  keeping 
at  about  the  same  distance  behind  him.  He  had 
not  determined  in  his  mind  what  it  was  best  to 
do,  but  held  himself  prepared  for  any  course  of 
action. 

After  riding  about  an  hour  he  put  spurs  to  his 
horse,  and  went  on  at  a  more  rapid  pace.  Yet 
he  did  not  overtake  Clark,  and  therefore  conjec- 
tm-ed  that  Clark  himself  must  have  gone  on  more 
rapidly.  He  now  put  his  own  horse  at  its  fullest 
speed,  with  the  intention  of  coming  up  with  his 
enemy  as  soon  as  possible. 

He  rode  on  at  a  tremendous  pace  for  another 


180 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


half  hour.  At  last  the  road  took  a  sudden  turn ; 
ind,  whirling  around  here  at  the  utmost  speed, 
he  burst  upon  a  scene  which  was  as  startling  as 
it  nas  unexpected,  and  which  roused  to  madness 
all  the  lervid  passion  of  his  nature. 

The  road  here  descended,  and  in  its  descent 
wound  round  a  hill  and  led  into  a  gentle  hol- 
low, on  each  side  of  which  hills  arose  which 
were  covered  with  trees. 

Within  this  glen  was  disclosed  a  frightful  spec- 
tacle. A  man  lay  on  the  ground,  torn  from  his 
horse  by  a  huge  blood-hound,  whi(;h  even  then 
was  rending  him  with  its  huge  fangs !  The  dis- 
mounted rider's  foot  was  entangled  in  the  stir- 
rups, and  the  horse  was  plunging  and  dragging 
him  ulong,  while  the  dog  was  pulling  him  back. 
The  man  himself  uttered  not  a  cry,  but  tried  to 
fight  oif  the  dog  with  his  hands  as  best  he  could. 

In  the  horror  of  the  moment  Despard  saw  that 
it  was  Langhetti.  For  an  instant  his  brain  reeled. 
The  next  moment  he  had  reached  the  spot.  An- 
other horseman  'vas  standing  close  by,  without 
pretending  even  to  interfere.  Despard  did  noi 
see  him :  he  saw  nothing  but  Langhetti.  He 
flung  himself  from  his  horse,  and  drew  a  re- 
volver from  his  pocket.  A  loud  report  rang 
through  the  air,  and  in  an  instant  the  huge 
blood-hound  gave  a  leap  upward,  with  a  pierc- 
ing yell,  and  fell  dead  in  the  road. 

Despard  flung  himself  on  his  knees  heside 
Langhetti.  He  saw  his  hands  torn  and  bleed- 
ing, and  blood  covering  his  face  and  breast.  A 
low  groan  was  all  that  escaped  from  the  suflerer. 

"  Leave  me,"  he  gasped.     "  Save  Bice." 

In  his  giief  for  Langhetti,  thus  lying  before 
him  in  such  agony,  Despard  forgot  all  else.  He 
seized  his  handkerchief  and  tried  to  stanch  the 
blood. 

"Leave  mel"  gasped  Langhetti  again.  "Bice 
will  be  lost."  His  head,  which  Despard  had  sup- 
ported for  a  moment,  sank  back,  and  life  seemed 
to  leave  him. 

Despard  started  up.  Now  for  the  fiist  time 
he  recollected  the  stranger;  and  in  an  instant 
understood  who  he  was,  and  why  this  had  been 
done.  Suddenly,  as  he  started  up,  he  felt  his 
pistol  snatched  from  his  hand  by  a  strong  grasp. 
He  turned. 

It  was  the  horseman — it  was  Clark — who  had 
stealthily  dismounted,  and,  in  his  desperate  pur- 
lK)se,  had  tried  to  make  sure  of  Despard. 

But  Despard,  quick  as  thought,  l^ped  upon 
him,  and  caught  his  hand.  In  the  struggle  the 
])istol  fell  to  the  ground.  Despard  caught  Clark 
in  his  arms,  and  then  the  contest  began. 

Clark  was  of  medium  size,  thick-set,  muscu- 
lar, robust,  and  desperate.  Despard  was  tall, 
but  his  frame  was  well  knit,  his  muscles  and 
sinews  were  like  iron,  and  he  was  inspired  by  a 
higher  spirit  and  a  deeper  passion. 

In  the  first  shock  of  that  fierce  embrace  not 
a  word  v/as  spoken.  For  some  time  the  strug- 
gle was  maintained  withoi't  result.  Clark  had 
caught  Despard  at  a  disadvantage,  and  this  for 
a  time  prevented  the  latter  from  putting  forth 
his  strength  effectually. 

At  last  he  wound  one  arm  around  Clark's  neck 
in  a  strangling  grasp,  and  forced  his  other  arm 
under  that  of  Clark.  Then  with  one  tremen- 
dous, one  resistless  impulse,  he  put  forth  all  his 
strength.  His  antagonist  gave  way  before  it. 
He  reeled.  .        . 


Despard  disengaged  one  arm  and  deau  .lim  a 
tremendous  blow  on  the  temple.  At  the  same 
instant  he  twined  his  legs  about  those  of  the  oth- 
er. At  the  stroke  Clark,  who  had  already  stag- 
gered, gave  way  utterly  and  fell  heavily  back- 
ward, with  Despard  upon  him. 

The  next  instant  Despard  had  seized  his  throat 
and  held  him  down  so  that  he  could  not  move. 

The  wretch  gasped  and  groaned.  He  strug- 
gled to  escape  from  that  iron  hold  in  vain. 
The  hand  which  had  seized  him  was  not  to  be 
shaken  off.  Despard  had  fixed  his  grasp  there, 
and  there  in  the  throat  of  the  fainting,  suffoca- 
ting wretch  he  held  it. 

The  struggles  grew  fainter,  the  arms  relaxed, 
the  face  blackened,  the  limbs  stiffened.  At  last 
all  efforts  ceased. 

Despard  «then  arose,  and,  turning  Clark  over 
on  his  face,  took  the  bridle  from  one  of  the 
horses,  bound  his  hands  behind  him,  and  fas- 
tened his  feet  securely.  In  the  fierce  struggle 
Clark's  coat  and  waistcoat  had  been  torn  away, 
and  slipped  down  to  some  extent.  Hjs  shirt- 
collar  haa  burst  and  flipped  with  them.  As  Des- 
pard turned  him  over  and  proceeded  to  tie  him, 
something  struck  his  eye.  It  was  a  bright,  red 
scar. 

He  pulled  down  the  shirt.  A  mark  appeared, 
the  full  meaning  of  which  he  knew  not,  but  could 
well  conjecture.  There  were  three  brands — fiery 
red — and  these  were  the  marks : 


+ 


CHAPTER  LIL 


FACE  TO  FACE. 


On  the  same  evening  Potts  left  the  bank  at 
about  five  o'clock,  and  went  up  to  the  Hall  with 
John.  He  was  morose,  gloomy,  and  abstracted. 
The  great  question  now  before  him  was  how 
to  deal  with  Smithers  &  Co.  Should  he  write  to 
j  tliem.  or  go  and  see  them,  or  what?  How  could 
he  satisfy  their  claims,  which  he  knew  would  now 
be  presented  ?  Involved  in  thoughts  like  these, 
he  entered  the  Hall,  and,  followed  by  John,  went 
to  the  dining-room,  where  father  and  son  sat 
down  to  refresh  themselves  over  a  bottle  of 
brandy. 

They  had  not  been  seated  half  an  hour  before 
♦he  noise  of  carriage-wheels  was  heard ;  and  on 
looking  out  they  saw  a  dog-cart  drawn  by  two 
magnificent  horses,  which  drove  sviftly  up  to  the 
portico.  A  gentleman  dismounted,  and,  throw- 
ing the  reins  to  his  servant,  came  up  the  steps. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


181 


T'le  stranger  was  of  medium  size,  with  an  ar- 
/stocratic  air,  remarkably  regular  features,  of 
pure  Grecian  outline,  and  deep,  black,  lustrous 
eyes.  His  brow  was  dark  and  stern,  and  cloud- 
ed over  bv  a  gloomy  frown. 

"  Who' the  devil  is  he  ?"  cried  Potts.  "  D— n 
that  porter ;    I  told  him  to  let  no  one  in  to-day." 

"I  believe  the  porter's  playing  fast  and  loose 
with  us.     But,  by  Jove !  do  you  see  that  fellow's 
eves  ?    Do  you  know  who  else  has  such  eyes  ?" 
'  "No." 

"  Old  Smithers  " 

"Smithers!"  •  ••      .  '. 

"Yes." 

"Then  this  is  young  Smithers ?" 

"Yes  ;  or  else  the  devil,"  said  John,  harshly. 
"  I  begin  to  have  an  idea,"  he  continued.  "  I've 
been  thinking  about  this  for  some  time." 

"What  is  it?" 

' '  Old  Smithers  had  these  eyes.  That  last  chap 
that  drew  the  forty  thousand  out  of  you  kept  his 
eyes  cohered.  Here  comes  this  fellow  with  the 
same  .eyes.  I  begin  to  trace  a  connection  be- 
tween them. " 

"Pooh!  Old  Smithers  is  old  enough  to  be 
this  man's  grandfather. " 

"  Did  you  ever  happen  to  notice  that  old 
Smithers  hadn't  a  wrinkle  in  his  face  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  nothing  —  only  his  hair  mightn't  have 
been  natural;  that's  all." 

Potts  and  John  exchanged  glances,  and  no- 
thing was  said  for  some  time. 

"Perhaps  this  Smithers  &  Son  have  been  at 
the  bottom  of  all  this, "  continued  John.  ' '  They 
are  the  only  ones  who  could  have  been  strong 
enough." 

"  But  why  should  they  ?" 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  Despard  or  Langhetti  may  have  got  them  to 
do  it.  Perhaps  that  d — d  girl  did  it.  Smithers 
&  Co.  will  make  money  enough  out  of  the  spec- 
ulation to  pay  them.  As  for  me  and  you,  I  be- 
gin to  have  a  general  but  very  accurate  idea,  of 
ruin.  You  are  getting  squeezed  pretty  close  up 
to  the  wall,  dad,  and  they  won't  give  you  time 
to  breathe." 

Before  this  conversation  had  ended  the  stranger 
had  entered,  and  had  gone  up  to  the  drawing- 
room.  The  senant  came  down  to  announce 
him. 

"  What  name?"  asked  Potts. 

"  He  didn't  give  any." 

Potts  looked  jjerplexed. 

"Come  now, "  said  John.  "This  fellow  has 
overreached  himself  at  last.  He's  come  here ; 
perhaps  it  won't  be  so  easy  for  him  to  get  out. 
I'll  have  all  the  servants  ready.  Do  you  keep 
up  your  spirits.  Don't  get  frightened,  but  be 
plucky.  Blutt'  him,  and  when  the  time  comes 
ring  tlie  bell,  and  I'll  march  in  with  all  the  serv- 
ants." 

Potts  looked  for  a  moment  at  his  son  with  a 
glance  of  deep  admiration. 

"Johnnie,  youve  got  more  sense  in  your  lit- 
tle finger  than  I  ha  e  in  my  whole  body.  Yes : 
we've  got  this  fello.v,  whoeve^  he  is;  and  if  he 
tm-na  out  to  be  what  I  suspect,  then  we'll  spring 
the  trap  on  him,  and  he'll  learn  what  it  is  to  play 
with  edge  tools." 

With  these  words  Potts  deported,  and,  ascend- 
ing the  stairs,  entered  the  drawing-room. 


The  stranger  was  standing  looking  ont  of  one 
of  the  windows.  Hia  attitude  brought  back  to 
Potts's  recollection  the  scene  which  had  once 
occurred  there,  when  old  Smithers  was  holding 
Beatrice  in  his  arms.  The  recollection  of  this 
threw  a  fiood  of  light  on  Potts's  mind.  He  re- 
called it  with  a  savage  exultation.  Perhaps  they 
were  the  same,  as  John  said  —  perhaps;  no, 
most  assuredly  they  must  be  the  same. 

"I've  got  him  now,  any  way,"  murmured 
Potts  to  himself  "whoever  he  is." 

The  stranger  turned  and  looked  at  Potts  for  a 
few  moments.  He  neither  bowed  nor  utte--d 
any  salutation  whatever.  In  his  look  there  wkj 
a  certain  terrific  menace,  an  indefinable  gknce  of 
conscious  power,  combined  with  implacable  hate. 
The  frown  which  usually  rested  on  his  brow 
darkened  and  deepened  till  the  gloomy  shadows 
that  covered  them  seemed  like  thunder-clouds. 

Before  that  awful  look  Potts  felt  himself  cow- 
ering involuntarily ;  and  he  began  to  feel  less 
confidence  in  his  own  power,  and  less  sure  that 
the  stranger  had  flung  himself  into  a  trap.  How- 
ever, the  silence  was  embarrassing;  so  at  last, 
with  an  effort,  he  said : 

"Well;  is  there  any  thing  you  want  of  me? 
I'm  in  a  hurrj*. " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  reached  the  vil- 
lage to-day  to  call  at  the  bank,  but  found  it 
closed."' 

"Oh!  I  suppose  you've  got  a  draft  on  me, 
too." 

"Yes,"  said  the  stranger,  mysteriously.  "I 
suppose  I  may  call  it  a  draft." 

"  There's  no  use  m  troubling  your  head  about 
it,  then,"  retunied  Potts;  "I  won't  pay." 

"You  won't?" 

"Not  a  penny." 

A  sharp,  sudden  smile  of  contempt  flashed 
over  the  stranger's  face. 

"Perhaps  if  you  knew  what  the  draft  is,  you 
would  feel  ditterently." 

"  I  don't  care  what  it  is." 

"That depends  upon  the  drawer." 

' '  I  don't  care  who  the  drawer  is.  I  won't  pay 
it.  I  don't  care  even  if  it's  Smithers  &  Co.  Ill 
settle  all  vhen  I'm  ready.  I'm  not  going  to  be 
bullied  any  longer.  I've  home  enough.  You 
needn't  look  so  ver}'  grand,"  he  continued,  pet- 
tishly; "I  see  through  you,  and  you  can't  keep 
up  this  sort  of  thing  much  longer.  ' 

"You  appear  to  hint  that  you  know  who  I 
am?" 

"  Something: of  that  sort,"  said  Potts,  rudely ; 
"and  let  me  tell  you  I  don't  care  who  you  are." 

"That  depends,"  rejoined  the  other,  calmly, 
"very  much  upon  circumstances." 

"So  you  see,"  continued  Potts,  "you  won't 
get  any  thing  out  of  me — not  this  time,"  he  add- 
ed. 

"My  draft,"  said  the  stranger,  "is  difi'erent 
from  those  which  were  presented  ^t  the  bank 
counter. " 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  of  deep  solemnity,  with  a 
tone  which  seemed  like  the  tread  of  some  inevita-, 
ble  Fate  advancing  upon  its  victim.     Potts  felt 
an  indefinable  fear  stealing  over  him  in  spite  of 
himself.     He  said  not  a  word. 

"  My  draft,"  continued  the  stranger,  in  a  tone 
which  was  still  more  aggressive  in  its  dominant 
and  self-assertive  power — "my  draft  was  drawn 
twenty  years  ago." 


182 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


Pottfl  looked  wonderingly  and  half  fearfully 
at  hltn. 

"My  draft,"  said  the  other,  "was  drawn  by 
Colonel  Lionel  Despard." 

A  chill  went  to  the  heart  of  Potts.  With  a 
violent  effort  he  shook  ott'  his  fear. 

"Pooh!"  said  he,  "you're  at  that  old  story, 
are  you?    That  nonsense  won't  do  here." 

"  It  was  dated  at  sea,"  continued  the  stranger, 
in  tones  which  still  deepened  in  awful  emphasis 
— "  at  sea,  when  the  writer  was  all  alone." 

"  It's  a'  lie !"  cried  Potts,  while  his  face  grew 
white. 

"At  sea,"  continued  the  other,  ringing  the 
changes  on  this  one  word,  "at  sea — on  board 
that  ship  to  which  you  had  brought  him — the 
Vishnu!" 

Potts  was  like  a  man  fascinated  by  some  hor- 
rid spectacle.  He  looked  fixedly  at  his  interloc- 
utor.    His  jaw  fell. 

"  There  he  died,"  said  the  stranger.  "  Who 
caused  his  death  ?    Will  you  answer  ?" 

With  a  tremendous  effort  Potts  again  recover- 
ed command  of  himself. 

"You — you've  been  reading  up  old  papers," 
loplied  he,  in  a  stammering  voice.  "You've 
got  a  lot  of  stuff  in  your  head  which  you  think 
will  frighten  me.  You've  come  to  the  wrong 
shop." 

But  in  spite  of  these  words  the  pale  face  and 
nervous  manner  of  Potts  showed  how  deep  was 
his  agitation. 

*'  1  myself  was  on  board  the  Vishnu,"  said  the 
other. 

"You!" 

"Yes,  I." 

"You!  Then  you  must  have  been  precious 
small.  The  Vishnu  went  down  twenty  years 
ago." 

"  I  was  on  board  of  the  Vishnu,  and  I  saw 
Colonel  Despard." 

The  memory  of  some  awful  scene  seemed  to 
inspire  the  tones  of  the  speaker — tfcev  thrilled 
through  the  coarse,  brutal  nature  of  the  listener. 

"I  saw  Colonel  Despard,"  continued  the 
•tranger. 

"  You  lie !"  cried  Potts,  roused  by  terror  and 
horror  to  a  fierce  pitch  of  excitement. 

"  I  saw  Colonel  Despard,'  repeated  the  stran- 
ger, for  the  third  time,  "on  board  the  Vishnu 
in  the  Indian  Sea.  I  learned  from  him  his 
story—" 

He  paused. 

"Then,"  cried  Potts,  quickly,  to  whom  there 
suddenly  came  an  idea  which  brought  courage 
with  it;  "then,  if  you  saw  him,  what  concern 
i.-:  it  of  mine  ?  He  nas  alive,  then,  and  the  Des- 
pard murder  never  took  place." 

"  it  did  take  place, "  said  the  other. 

"  You're  talking  nonsense.  How  could  it  if 
you  saw  him  ?  He  must  have  been  alive." 
.  "//e  was  dead!"  replied  the  stranger,  whose 
eyes  had  never  withdrawn  themselves  from  those 
of  Potts,  and  now  seemed  hke  two  fiey  orbs 
blazing  wrathfuUy  upon  him.  The  tones  pene- 
trated to  the  very  soul  of  the  listener.  He  shud- 
dered in  spite  of  himself.  Like  most  vulgar  na- 
tures, his  was  accessible  to  sujjerstitious  horror. 
He  heard  and  trembled. 

"  He  was  dead,"  repeated  the  stranger,  "  and 
yet  all  that  I  told  you  is  true.  I  learned  from 
him  his  story." 


"Dead  men  tell  no  tales,"  muttered  Potts,  in  a 
scarce  articulate  voice. 

"  So  you  thought  when  you  locked  him  in,  and 
set  fire  to  the  ship,  and  scuttled  her ;  but  you  see 
you  were  mistaken,  for  here  at  least  was 'a  dead 
man  who  did  tell  tales,  find  I  was  the  listen- 
er." 

And  the  mystic  solemnity  of  the  man's  face 
seemed  to  mark  him  as  one  who  might  indeed 
have  held  commune  with  the  der.d. 

"  He  told  me,"continued  the  f  tranger,  "where 
he  found  you,  and  how." 

Awful  expectation  was  manifest  on  the  face 
of  Potts. 

"He  told  me  of  the  mark  on  your  arm.  Draw- 
up  your  sleeve,  Briggs,  Potts,  or  whatever  other 
name  you  choose,  and  show  the  indelible  char- 
acters which  represent  the  name  of  Bowhani. " 

Potts  started  back.  His  lips  grew  ashen.  His 
teeth  chattered. 

"He  gave  me  this,'"  cried  the  stranger,  in  a 
louder  voice;  "and  this  is  the  draft  which  you 
will  not  reject. " 

He  strode  forward  three  or  four  paces,  and 
flung  something  toward  Potts. 

It  was  a  cord,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  me- 
tallic ball.  The  ball  struck  the  table  as  it  tell, 
and  rolled  to  the  floor,  but  the  stranger  held  the 
other  end  in  his  hand. 

"Thcg!"  cried  he;  "  do  you  know  what  that 
is?" 

Had  the  stranger  been  Olympian  Jove,  and  had 
he  flung  forth  from  his  right  hand  a  thunder-bolt, 
it  could  not  have  produced  a  more  appalling  ef- 
fect than  that  which  was  wrought  upon  Potts  by 
the  sight  of  this  cord.  He  started  back  in  hor- 
ror, uttering  a  cry  half-way  between  a  scream  and 
a  groan.  Big  drops  of  perspiration  started  from 
his  brow.  He  trembled  and  shuddered  from  head 
t  J  foot.     His  jaw  fell.     He  stood  speechless. 

"  That  is  my  draft,"  said  the  stranger. 

"What  do  you  want?'  gasped  Potts. 

"The  title  deeds  of  the  Brando'i  estates!" 

"The  Brandon  estates!"  said  Potts,  in  a  fal- 
tering voice. 

"Yes,  the  Brandon  estates ;  nothing  less." 

' '  And  will  j'ou  then  keep  silent  ?" 

"  I  will  give  yc    the  cord." 

"  Will  you  keep  silent  ?" 

"  I  am  your  master,"  said  the  other,  haughtily, 
as  his  burning  eyes  fixed  themselves  with  a  con- 
suming gaze  upon  the  abject  wretch  before  him ; 
"I  am  your  master.  I  make  no  promises.  I 
spare  you  or  destroy  you  as  I  choose." 

These  words  reduced  Potts  to  despair.  In  the 
depths  of  that  despair  he  found  hope.  He  start- 
ed up,  defiant.  With  an  oath  he  sprang  to  the 
bell-rope  and  pulled  again  and  again,  till  the 
peals  reverberated  through  the  house. 

The  stranger  stood  with  a  scornful  smile  on 
his  face.     Potts  turned  to  him  savagely : 

"I'll  teach  you, "he  cried,  "that  you've  come 
to  the  wrong  shop.  I'm  not  a  child.  Who  you 
aic  I  don't  know  and  don't  care.  You  are  the 
cause  of  my  ruin,  and  you'll  repent  of  it." 

The  stranger  said  nothing,  but  stood  with  the 
same  fixed  and  scornful  smile.  A  noise  was 
heard  outside,  the  tramp  of  a  crowd  of  men. 
They  ascended  the  stairs.  At  last  John  appeared 
at  the  door  of  the  room,  followed  by  thirty  seiT- 
a  Its.  Prominent  among  these  vas  Asgeelo. 
Near  him  was  Vijal.     Potts  gave  a  triimiphant 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


I» 


'•thugI    do  vou  know  what  '^HA 


smile.  The  servants  ranged  themselves  around 
the  room. 

"  Now,"  cried  Potts,  "you're  in  for  it.  You're 
in  a  trap,  I  think.  You'll  find  that  I'm  not  a 
born  idiot.     Give  up  that  cord  I" 

The  stranger  said  nothing,  but  wound  up  the 
cord  coolly,  placed  it  in  his  pocket,  and  still  re- 
garded Potts  with  his  scornful  smile. 

"  Here !"  cried  Potts,  addressing  the  servants. 
"  Catch  that  man,  and  tie  his  hands  and  feet." 

The  senants  had  taken  their  station  around 
the  room  at  John's  order.  As  Potts  spoke  they 
stood  there  looking  at  the  stranger,  but  not  one 
of  them  moved.  Vijal  only  started  forward. 
The  stranger  turned  toward  him  and  looked  in 
his  face. 

Vijal  g'anced  around  in  surprise,  waiting  for 
the  other  ser\-ants. 

"  You  devils  1"  2ried  Potts,  "  do  you  hear  what 
I  say  ?    yeize  that  man !" 

None  of  the  servants  moved. 

"It's  my  belief,"  said  John,  "that  they're  all 
ratting." 

"Vijal!"  cried  Potts,  savagely,  "  tackle  him." 

Vijal  rushed  forward.  At  that  instant  Asgee- 
lo  bounded  forward  also  with  one  tremendous 
leap,  anil  seizing  Vijal  by  the  throat  hurled  him 
to  the  floor. 


The  stranger  waved  his  hand. 

"  Let  him  go !"  said  he. 

Asgeelo  obeyed. 

"What  the  devil's  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  cried 
John,  looking  around  in  dismay.  Potts  also  look- 
ed around.  There  stood  the  senants — motion- 
less, impassive. 

"For  the  last  time," roared  Poits,  with  a  per- 
fect volley  of  oaths, ' '  seize  that  man,  or  you'll  be 
sorry  for  it." 

The  servants  stood  motionle.sa.  The  stranger 
remained  in  the  same  at'tude  with  the  same 
sneering  smile. 

"Y'ou  see,"  said  he,  fit  last,  "  tluH  you  don't 
know  me,  after  all.  fou  aro  in  i.\v  j.iower, 
Briggs  —  you  cant  ge  away,  nor  .an  your 
son.'' 

I'otts  mshed,  with  an  oath,  to  the  door.  Half 
a  dozen  servants  were  standing  there.  As  he 
came  furiously  toward  them  they  held  out  their 
clenched  fists.  He  rushed  upon  them.  They 
beat  him  back.    He  fell,  foaming  at  the  lips. 

John  stood  cool  and  unmoved,  looking  around 
the  room,  and  learning  from  the  face  of  each 
servant  that  they  were  all  beyond  his  authority. 
He  folded  his  arms,  and  said  nothing. 

"Yon  r,;)j)ear  to  have  been  mistaken  in  your 
man,"  said  the  stranger,  coolly.     "  These  are 


184 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


not  yonr  serrants ;  they're  mine.     Shall  I  tell 
them  to  seize  you  ?" 

Potts  glared  at  him  with  bloodshot  eyes;  but 
said  nothing. 

"  Miall  I  tell  them  to  pull  up  j'our  sleeve  and 
display  the  mark  of  Bowhani,  Sir  ?  Shall  I  tell 
who  and  what  you  are  ?  t'hall  I  bej^-in  from  your 
birth  and  give  them  a  full  and  complete  history 
of  your  life?" 

i'otts  looked  around  like  a  wild  beast  in  the 
arena,  seeking  for  some  opening  for  escape,  but 
finding  nothing  except  hostile  faces, 

"Do  what  you  like  I"  he  cried,  desperately, 
with  an  oath,  and  sank  down  into  stolid  despair. 

"  No ;  you  don't  mean  that,"  said  the  other. 
"  For  1  have  some  London  policemen  at  the  inn, 
and  I  might  like  best  to  hand  you  over  to  them 
on  charges  which  you  can  easily  imagine.  You 
don't  wish  me  to  do  so,  I  think.  You'd  prefer 
being  at  large  to  being  chained  np  in  a  cell,  or 
sent  to  Botany  Bay,  I  supi)ose  ?  Still,  if  you  pre- 
fer it,  I  will  at  once  arrange  an  inter^'iew  be- 
tween yourself  and  these  gentlemen," 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  anxiously  asked  Potts, 
who  now  thought  that  he  might  ei)me  to  terms, 
and  perhaps  gain  his  escape  from  the  clutches  of 
his  enemy. 

"The  title  deeds  of  the  Brandon  estate,"  said 
the  stranger. 

"Never!" 

"Then  off  you  go.  They  must  be  mine,  at 
any  rate.  Nothing  can  prevent  that.  Either 
give  them  now  and  begone,  or  delay,  and  you  go 
at  once  to  jail." 

"  I  won't  give  them,"  said  Potts,  desperately. 

"Catol"  said  the  stranger,  "go  and  fetcii  the 
policemen." 

"Stop!"  cried  John. 

At  a  sign  Asgeelo,  who  had  already  taken 
two  steps  toward  the  door,  paused. 

"Here,  dad,"  said  John,  "you've  got  to  do 
it.  You  might  as  well  hand  over  tlie  papers. 
You  don't  want  to  get  into  quod,  I  think." 

Potts  turned  his  pale  face  to  his  son. 

"Do  it !"  exclaimed  John. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  since  I've  got 
to,  I've  got  to,  I  suppose.  You  know  best,  John- 
nie.    I  always  said  you  had  a  long  head." 

"I  must  go  and  get  them,"  he  continued. 

"  I'll  go  with  you  ;  or  no — Cato  shall  go  with 
you,  ana  I'll  wait  here." 

The  Hindu  went  with  Potts,  holding  his  collar 
in  his  powerful  grasp,  and  taking  care  to  let 
Potts  see  the  hilt  of  a  knife  which  he  carried  up 
his  sleeve,  in  the  other  hand. 

Afrer  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  returned, 
and  Potts  handed  over  to  the  stranger  some  pa- 
pers. He  looked  at  them  carefully,  and  put 
them  in  liis  pocket.  He  then  gave  Pctts  the 
cord.  Potts  took  it  in  an  abstracted  way,  and 
said  nothing. 

"  You  must  leave  this  Hall  to-night,"  said  the 
stranger,  sternly — "you  and  your  son,  I  re- 
main here. 

" Leave  i^j H^         gasped  Potts. 
.     "Yes," 

For  a  moment  he  stood  overwhelmed.  He 
looked  at  John.     John  noaded  his  head  slowly. 

"  You've  got  to  do  it,  dad,"  said  he. 

Potts  turned  savagely  at  ti.e  stranger.  He 
shook  his  clenched  fist  at  him. 

"D — n  jou!"  he  cried.     "Are  you  satisfied 


yet?  I  know  you.  111  pay  you  np.  What 
complaint  have  you  against  mc,  I'd  like  to  know  ? 
I  never  harmed  you." 

"You  don't  know  me,  or  yon  wouldn't  say 
that." 

"  I  do.     You're  Smithers  &  Co." 

"True;  and  I'm  several  other  people.  I've 
had  the  pleasure  of  an  extended  intercourse  with, 
you.  For  I'm  not  only  Smithers  &  Co.,  but  I'm 
aLso  Beamish  &  Hendricks,  American  merchants. 
I'm  also  Bigelow,  Higginson,  &  Co.,  solicitors  to 
i-mithers  &  to.  Besides,  I'm  yoiu-  I^ondon 
broker,  who  attended  to  your  speculations  in 
stockr,.  Perhaps  you  think  that  you  don't  know 
me  after  all." 

As  he  said  this  Potts  and  John  exchanged 
glances  of  wonder.     . 

"Tricked!"  cried  Potts  —  "deceived!  hum- 
bugged! and  mined!  Who  are  you?  What 
have  you  against  me  ?    Who  are  you  ?    Who  ?" 

And  he  gazed  with  intense  curiosity  upon  the 
calm  face  of  the  stranger,  who,  in  his  turn,  \<x.'..- 
ed  upon  him  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  suney- 
ing  from  a  superior  height  some  feeble  creature 
far  beneath  him. 

"  Who  am  1  ?'  he  repeated.  "  Who ?  I  am 
the  one  to  whom  all  this  belongs.  I  am  one 
whom  you  have  injured  so  deei)ly,  that  what  I 
have  done  to  you  is  nothing  in  comparison." 

"Who  are  you?"  cried  Potts,  with  feverish 
impatience,  "It's  a  lie.  I  never  injured  you. 
I  never  saw  you  before  till  you  came  yourself  to 
trouble  me.  Those  whom  i  have  injured  are  all 
dead,  except  that  parson,  the  son  of — of  the  offi- 
cer." 

"There  are  others." 

Potts  said  nothing,  but  looked  with  some  fear- 
ful discoveiy  dawning  upon  him. 

"You  know  me  now!"  cried  the  stranger. 
"  I  see  it  in  your  face."' 

"You're  not  him!"  exclaimed  Potts,  in  a 
piercing  voice. 

"  I  am  Louis  Bkandon  !'' 

"I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!"  cried  John,  in  a 
voice  which  was  almost  a  shriek. 

"Cigole  played  false.  Ill  make  him  pay  for 
this,"  gasped  Potts. 

"  Cigole  did  not  play  false.  He  killed  me  as 
well  as  he  could —  But  away,  both  of  you.  I 
can  not  breathe  while  you  are  here,  I  will  allow 
you  an  hour  to  be  gone." 

At  the  end  of  the  hcur  Brandon  of  Brandon 
Hall  was  at  last  master  in  the  home  of  his  ances- 
tors. 


CHAPTER  LIII, 


THE    COTTAGE, 


When  Cespard  hac'  bound  Clark  he-  retamed 
to  look  after  Langhetti.  He  lay  teebly  and  mo- 
tionless upon  the  ground.  Despard  carefully  ex- 
amined his  wounds.  His  injuries  were  very  se- 
vere. His  arms  were  lacerated,  and  his  shoul- 
der torn ;  blood  also  was  issuing  from  a  wound 
on  the  side  of  his  neck.  Despard  bound  these 
up  as  best  he  could,  and  then  sat  wondering  what 
could  l>e  done  next. 

He  judged  that  he  might  be  four  or  five  miles 
from  Denton,  and  saw  that  this  was  the  place  to 
which  he  must  go.  Besides,  Beatrice  was  there, 
and  she  could  nurse  Langhetti.     But  how  could 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


185 


he  get  there? — that  was  the  question.  It  was  im- 
possible for  Langhetti  to  go  on  horseback.  He 
tried  to  form  some  phm  by  which  this  might  be 
done.  He  began  to  make  a  sort  of  litter  to  be 
hung  between  two  horses,  and  had  already  cut 
down  with  his  knife  two  small  trees  or  rather 
bushes  for  this  purpose,  when  the  noise  of  wheels 
on  the  road  before  him  attracted  his  attention. 

It  was  a  farmer's  wagon,  and  it  was  coming 
from  the  direction  of  Denton.  Despard  stopped 
it,  explained  his  situation,  and  offered  to  pay  any 
thing  if  the  farmer  would  turn  back  and  convey 
his  friend  and  his  prisoner  to  Denton.  It  did 
not  take  long  to  strike  a  bargain ;  the  farmer 
turned  his  horses,  some  soft  shrub?  and  ferns 
were  strewn  on  the  bottom  of  the  wagon,  and  on 
these  Langhetti  was  deposited  carefully.  Clark, 
who  by  this  time  had  come  to  himself,  was  put 
at  one  end,  where  he  sat  grimly  and  sulkily ;  the 
three  horses  were  led  behind,  and  Despard,  riding 
on  the  wagon,  supported  the  head  of  Langhetti 
on  his  knees. 

Slowly  and  carefully  they  went  to  the  village. 
Despard  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  cottage. 
It  was  where  the  letter  had  described  it.  The 
village  inn  stood  near  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
road. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  when 
they  reached  the  cottage.  Lights  were  burning 
in  the  windows.  Despai-d  jumped  out  hastily 
and  knocked.  A  servant  came.  Despard  asked 
for  the  mistress,  and  Beatrice  appeared.  As  she 
recognized  him  her  face  lighted  up  with  joy. 
But  Despard's  face  was  sad  and  gloomy.  He 
pressed  her  hand  in  silence  and  said : 

"  My  dear  adopted  sister,  I  bring  you  our  be- 
loved J^anghetti." 

"  Langhetti !"  she  exclaimed,  fearfully. 

"He  has  met  with  an  accident.  Is  there  a 
doctor  in  the  place  ?    Send  your  servant  at  once." 

Beatrice  hurried  in  and  returned  with  a  servant. 

"  We  will  first  lift  him  out,"  said  Despard. 
"Is  there  a  bed  ready?" 

"Oh  yes!  Bring  him  in!"  cried  Beatrice, 
v.ho  was  now  in  an  agony  of  suspense. 

She  hurried  after  them  to  the  wagon.  They 
lifted  Langhetti  out  and  took  him  into  a  room 
which  Beatrice  showed  them.  They  tenderly  laid 
him  on  the  bed.  Meanwhile  the  servant  had  hur- 
ried otF  for  a  doctor,  who  soon  appeared. 

Beatrice  sat  by  his  bedside ;  she  kissed  the 
brow  of  the  almost  unconscious  sufferer,  and 
tried  in  every  possible  way  to  alleviate  his  pain. 
The  doctor  soon  annved,  dressed  his  wounds,  and 
left  directions  for  his  care,  which  consisted  chief- 
ly in  constant  watchfulness. 

Leaving  Langhetti  under  the  charge  of  Bea- 
trice, Despard  went  in  search  of  a  magistrate. 
He  found  one  >vithout  any  difficulty,  and  before 
an  hour  Clark  was  safe  in  jail.  The  information 
which  Despard  lodged  against  him  was  corrobo- 
rated by  the  brands  on  his  back,  which  showed 
him '  o  be  a  man  of  desperate  character,  who  had 
formerl/  been  transported  for  crime. 

Desrard  next  wrote  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Thornton. 
He  told  her  about  Langhetti.  and  urged  her  to 
come  on  immediately  and  bring  Edith  with  her. 
Then  he  returned  to  the  cottage  and  wished  to 
sit  up  with  Langhetti.  Beatrice,  however,  would 
not  let  him.  She  said  that  no  one  should  deprive 
her  of  the  place  by  his  bedside.  Despard  '•e- 
mained,  however,  and  the  two  devoted  equal  dt- 
M 


tention  to  the  sufferer.  Langhetti  spoke  only 
once.  He  was  so  faint  that  his  voice  waa  scarce 
audible.    Beatrice  put  her  ear  close  to  bi^  mouth. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  Despard. 

"  He  wants  Edith,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  I  have  written  for  her,"  said  Despard. 

Beatrice  whispered  this  to  Langhetti.  An  ec- 
static smile  passed  over  his  face, 

"It  is  well,"  he  murmured.   ... 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

THEWORMTURN8. 

Potts  depai-ted  fron»  the  Hall  in  deep  dejec- 
tion. The  tremendous  power  of  his  enemy  had 
been  shown  all  along ;  and  now  that  this  enemy 
turned  out  to  be  Louis  Brandon,  he  felt  as 
though  some  supernatural  being  had  taken  np 
arms  against  him.  Against  that  being  a  strug- 
gle seemed  as  hopeless  as  it  would  be  against 
Fate.  It  was  with  some  such  feeling  as  this 
that  he  left  Brandon  Hall  forever. 

All  of  his  grand  projects  had  broken  down, 
suddenly  and  utterly.  He  had  not  a  ray  of  hope 
left  of  ever  regaining  the  position  which  he  had 
but  recently  occupied.  He  was  thrust  back  to 
the  obscurity  from  which  he  had  emerged. 

One  thing  troubled  him.  Would  the  power 
of  his  remorseless  enemy  be  now  stayed — would 
his  vengeance  end  here  ?  He  could  scarce  hope 
for  this.  He  judged  that  enemy  by  himself, 
and  he  knew  th.xt  he  would  not  stop  in  the 
search  after  venget.nce,  that  nothing  short  of  the 
fullest  and  direst  roin — nothing,  in  fact,  short  of 
death  itself  would  satisfy  him. 

John  was  with  him,  and  Vijal,  who  alone  out 
of  all  the  servants  had  followed  his  fortunes. 
These  three  walked  down  and  passed  througl. 
the  gates  together,  and  emerged  into  the  outer 
world  in  silence.  But  when  they  had  left  the 
gates  the  silence  ended. 

' '  Well,  dad ! "  said  John,  ' '  what  are  yon  going 
to  do  now  ?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"  Have  you  any  monej'  ?" 

"Four  thousand  pounds  in  the  bank." 

"Not  much,  dad,"  said  John,  slowly,  "for  a 
man  who  last  month  was  worth  millions.  You're 
com'.ig  out  at  the  little  end  of  the  horn." 

Potts  made  no  reply, 

"  At  any  rate  there  s  one  comfort,"  said  John, 
"even  about  that." 

"What  comfort?" 

"'Vhy,  you  went  in  at  the  little  end." 

1  ney  walked  on  in  silence. 

"You  musi  do  something,"  said  John  at  last. 

"What  can  I  do?' 

"  You  won't  let  that  fellow  ride  the  high  horse 
in  this  style,  will  you  ?" 

"  How  can  I  help  it? ' 

"  You  can't  help  it ;  but  you  can  strike  a  blow 
vourself. " 

"How?" 

"  How  ?  You've  struck  blows  before  to  some 
purpose,  I  think." 

"  But  I  never  yet  knew  any  one  with  such  tre- 
mendous power  as  this  man  has.  And  where 
did  he  get  all  his  money  ?  You  said  before  that 
he  was  the  devil,  and  I  believe  it.  W^here's 
Clark  ?    Do  you  think  he  has  succeeded  ?" 


18« 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


"No,"  said  John. 

"  No  more  do  I.  This  man  has  every  body 
in  his  pay.  Look  at  the  servants!  See  how 
easily  he  did  what  he  wished!" 

"  You've  got  one  servant  left."  '  :•.. 

"Ah,  yes— that's  a  fact."  ^        ' 

"That  servant  will  do  something  for  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Brandon  is  a  man,  after  all — and  can  die" 
said  John,  with  deep  emphasis.  "Vijal,"  he 
continued,  in  a  whisper,  "  hates  me,  but  he  would 
lay  down  his  life  for  you. " 

"I  understand,"  said  Potts,  after  a  pause. 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"You  go  on  to  the  inn,"  said  Potts,  at  last. 
"I'll  talk  with  Vijal." 

"Shall  I  risk  the  policemen ?" 

"Yes,  you  run  no  risk.  Ill  sleep  in  the 
bank." 

"  All  right,"  said  John,  and  lie  walked  away. 

"Vijal,"  said  Potts,  dropping  back  so  as  to 
wait  for  the  Malay.     "  You  are  faithful  to  me." 

"Yes,"  answered  Vijal. 

' '  All  the  others  betrayed  me,  but  you  did  not  ?" 

"Never." 

"Do  you  know  when  you  first  saw  me?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  saved  your  life." 

"Ye?." 

"  Your  father  was  seized  at  Manilla  and  killed 
for  murder,  but  I  protected  you,  and  promised  to 
'ake  care  of  you.     Haven't  I  done  so  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Vijal  humbly,  and  in  a  reverent 
tone. 

"Haven't  I  been  another  father?" 

"You  have." 

"  Didn't  I  promise  to  tell  you  some  day  who 
the  man  was  that  killed  your  fatlier  ?" 

"Y'"es,"  exclaimed  Vijal,  fiercely. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  tell  you." 

"Who?"  cried  Vijal,  in  excitement  so  strong 
that  he  could  scarce  speak. 

"Did  you  see  that  man  who  drove  .ue  out  of 
the  Hall?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  that  was  the  man.  He  killed  your  fa- 
ther. He  has  ruined  me — your  other  father. 
What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

' '  He  shall  die, "  returned  Vijal,  solemnly.  ' '  He 
shall  die." 

"I  am  an  old  man,"  resumed  Potts.  "  If  I 
were  as  strong  as  I  used  to  be  I  would  not  talk 
about  this  to  vou.     I  would  do  it  all  mvself." 

"I'll  do  it f"  cried  Vijal.     " 111  do  it !" 

His  eyes  flashed,  his  nostrils  dilated — all  the 
savage  within  lum  was  aroused.  Potts  saw  this, 
and  rejoiced. 

"Do  you  know  how  to  use  this?"  he  asked, 
showing  Vijal  the  cord  which  Brandon  had  given 
him. 

Vijal's  eyes  dilated,  and  a  wilder  fire  shone  in 
them.  He  seized  the  cord,  turned  it  round  his 
liand  for  a  moment,  and  then  hurled  it  at  Potts. 
It  passed  round  and  round  his  waist. 

"Ah!"  said  Potts,  whh  deep  gratification. 
"  You  have  not  forgotten,  then.  Y'ou  can  throw 
it  skillfully." 

Vijal  nodded,  and  said  nothing. 

"  Keep  the  cord.  Follow  up  that  man. 
Avenge  your  father's  death  and  my  ruin." 

"  I  will,"  said  Vijal,  sternly. 

"  It  may  take  long.     Follow  him  up.    Do  not 


come  back  to  me  till  yon  come  to  tell  me  that  he 
is  dead." 

Vijal  nodded. 

"  Now  I  am  going.  I  must  fly  and  hide  my- 
self from  this  man.  As  long  as  he  lives  I  am  in 
danger.  But  you  will  always  find  John  at  the 
inn  when  you  wish  to  see  me." 

"  I  will  lay  down  my  life  for  you,"  said  Vijal. 

"  I  don't  want  your  "life, "  returned  Potts.  "  I 
want  his. " 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  exclaimed  Vijal. 

Potts  spid  no  more.  He  handed  Vijal  his 
purse  in  silence.  The  latter  took  it  without  a 
word.  Potts  then  went  toward  the  bank,  and 
Vijal  stood  alone  in  the  road. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

ONTHEKOAD. 

On  tl.e  following  morning  Brandon  started 
from  the  Hall  at  an  early  hour.  He  was  on 
horseback.  He  rode  down  through  the  gates. 
Passing  through  the  village  he  went  by  the  inn 
and  took  the  road  to  Denton. 

He  had  not  gone  far  before  another  horseman 
followed  him.  The  latter  rode  at  a  rapid  pace. 
Brandon  did  not  pay  any  especial  attention  to 
him,  and  at  length  ;he  latter  overtook  him.  It 
was  when  they  were  nearly  abreast  that  Brandon 
recognized  the  other.     It  was  Vijal. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Vijal. 

"  Good-moming,"  replied  Brandon. 

"  Are  you  going  to  Denton  ?" 

"Yes." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Vijal. 

Brandon  fvas  purposely  courteous,  although  it 
was  not  exactly  the  thing  for  a  gentleman  to  be 
thus  addressed  by  a  sei-vant.  He  saw  that  this 
servant  had  overreached  hinself,  and  knew  that 
he  must  have  some  motive  for  joining  him  and 
addressing  him  in  so  familiar  a  mann.r. 

He  suspected  what  might  be  Vijal's  aim,  and 
therefore  kept  a  close  watch  on  him.  He  saw 
that  Vijal,  while  holding  the  reins  in  his  left 
hand,  kept  his  right  hand  concealed  in  his  breast. 
A  suspicion  darted  across  his  mind.  He  stroked 
his  mustache  with  his  owa  right  hand,  which  he 
kept  constantly  upraised,  and  talked  cheerfully 
and  i)atronizingly  with  his  companion.  After  a 
while  he  fell  back  a  little  and  drew  forth  a  knife, 
whicii  he  concealed  in  his  hand,  and  then  he  rode 
forward  as  before  abreast  of  the  other,  assuming 
the  appearance  of  perfect  calm  and  indilference. 

"Have  you  left  Potts ?"  said  Brandon,  after  a 
short  time. 

"  No,"  replied  Vijal. 

"  Ah !  Then  you  are  on  some  b  siness  of  his 
now?" 

"Yes." 

Brandon  was  silent. 

"  Would  you  like  to  know  what  it  is ?'  asked 
Vijal. 

"Not  particular! V,"  said  Brandon,  coldlv. 

"  Shall!  teU  you?' 

"If  you  choose." 

Vijal  raised  his  hand  suddenly  and  gave  a 
quick,  short  jerk.  A  cord  flew  forth — there  was 
a  weight  at  the  end.  The  cord  was  flung  straight 
at  Brandon's  neck. 

But  Brandon  had  been  on  his  gvard.     At  the 


CORD  AND  CHEESE. 


187 


VIJAL   LOOKED    EARNESTLY    AT   IT.       HE    SAW  THESE   WORDS:    JOHN   POTTS. 


movement  of  Vijal's  arm  he  had  raised  his  own  ; 
the  cord  passed  around  him,  but  his  arm  was 
within  its  embrace.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  knife 
concealed.  In  an  instant  he  slashed  his  knife 
through  the  windings  of  the  cord,  severing  them 
all ;  then  dropping  the  knife  he  plunged  his  hand 
into  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  before  Vijal  could 
recover  from  his  surprise  he  drew  forth  a  revolver 
and  pointed  it  at  him. 

ViyAl  saw  at  once  that  he  was  lost.  He  never- 
theless plunged  his  spurs  into  his  horse  and  made 
a  desperate  effort  to  escape.  As  his  horse  bound- 
ed off  Brandon  fired.  The  animal  gave  a  wild 
neigh,  which  sounded  almost  like  a  shriek,  and 
fell  upon  the  road,  throwing  Vijal  over  his  head. 

In  an  instant  Brandon  was  up  with  him.  He 
leaped  from  his  horse  before  Vijal  had  disencum- 


bered himself  from  his,  and  seizing  the  Malay  by 
the  collar  held  the  pistol  at  his  head. 

"If  you  move,"  he  cried,  sternly,  "III  blow 
your  brains  out!" 

Vijal  lay  motionless. 

"Scoundrel!"  exclaimed  Brandon,  a.<i  he  held 
him  A\'ith  the  revolver  pressed  against  his  head, 
"who  sent  you  to  do  this ?" 

Vijal  in  sullen  silence  answered  nothing. 

"Tell  me  or  111  kill  you.     Was  it  Totts ?" 

Vijal  made  no  reply. 

"ISpeak  out,"  cried  Brandon.  "Fool  that 
you  are,  I  don't  want  your  life. " 

"Yon  are  the  murderer  of  my  father,"  siiid 
Vijal,  fiercely,  "  and  therefore  I  sought  to  kill 
you." 

Brandon  gave  a  low  laugh. 


188 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


"Tbs  murderer  of  your  father?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,"  cried  Vyal,  wildly;  "and  I  sought 
your  death." 

Brandon  laughed  a^'ain. 

"  Do  you  know  how  old  I  am  ?" 

Vijal  looked  up  in  amazement.  He  saw  by 
that  one  look  what  he  had  not  thought  of  before 
in  his  excitement,  that  Brandon  was  a  younjjer 
man  than  himself  by  several  years,  lie  was  si- 
lent. 

"  How  many  years  is  it  since  your  father  died  ?" 

Yijal  said  nothing. 

"  Fool !"  exclaimed  Brandon.  "  It  is  twenty 
years.  You  are  false  to  your  father.  You  pre- 
tend to  avenge  his  death,  and  you  seek  out  a 
young  man  who  had  no  connection  with  it.  I 
was  in  England  when  he  was  killed.  I  was  a 
child  only  seven  years  of  age.  Do  you  believe 
now  that  I  am  his  murderer  ?" 

Brandon,  while  speaking  in  this  way,  had  re- 
laxed his  hold,  though  he  still  held  his  pistol 
pointed  at  the  head  n{  his  prostrate  enemy.  Vi- 
jal gave  a  long,  low  sigh. 

"You  were  too  young,  "said  he,atla8t.  "You 
are  younger  than  I  am.     I  was  only  twelve." 

"  I  could  not  have  been  his  murderer,  then  ?" 

"No." 

"  Yet  I  know  who  his  murderer  was,  for  I  have 
found  out." 

"Who?" 

"  The  same  man  who  killed  my  own  father." 

Vijal  looked  at  Brandon  with  awful  eyes. 

"  Your  father  had  a  brother  ?"  said  Brandon. 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  his  name?" 

"Yes.     Zangorri." 

"Right.  WeJl,  do  yoi>.  know  what  Zangorri 
did  to  avenge  his  br^thor's  death  ?  ' 

"No;  wha:?" 

"For  many  years  he  vowed  death  to  all  En- 
glishmen, since  it  was  an  Englishman  who  had 
caused  the  death  of  his  brother.  He  had  a  ship ; 
he  got  a  crew  and  sailed  through  the  Eastern  seas, 
capturing  English  ships  and  killing  the  crews. 
This  was  his  vengeance." 

Vijal  gave  a  groan. 

"You  see  he  has  done  more  than  you.  He 
knew  better  than  you  who  it  was  that  had  killed 
your  father." 

"  Who  was  it?"  cried  Vijal,  fiercely. 

"  I  saw  him  twice,"  continued  Brandon,  with- 
out noticing  the  question  of  the  other.  "  I  saw 
him  twice,  and  twice  he  told  me  the  name  of  the 
man  whose  death  he  sought.  For  year  after  year 
he  had  sought  after  that  man,  but  had  not  found 
him.  Hundreds  of  Englishmen  had  fallen.  He 
told  me  the  name  of  the  man  whom  he  sought, 
csid  charged  me  to  cany  out  his  work  of  venge- 
.^-..ce.  I  promised  to  do  so,  for  I  had  a  work  of 
vengeance  cf  my  own  to  perform,  and  on  the 
same  man,  too." 

"Who  was  he  ?"  repeated  Vijal,  with  increased 
excitement. 

"  When  I  saw  him  last  he  gave  me  .jmething 
which  he  said  he  h'.d  worn  around  his  neck  for 
years.  I  took  it,  and  promised  to  wear  it  till 
the  vengeance  which  he  sought  should  be  accom- 
plished. I  did  so,  for  I  too  had  a  debt  of  venge- 
ance stronger  than  his,  and  on  the  same  man. " 

'  Who  was  he?" cried  Vijal  again,  with  rest- 
less imp<  iuosity. 

Brandon  unbuttoned  his  vest  and  drew  forth 


a  Malay  creese,  which  was  haog  aronnd  his  neck 
and  worn  under  his  coat. 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  is  ?"  he  asked,  sol- 
emnly. 

Vijal  took  it  and  looked  at  it  earnestly.  His 
eyes  dilated,  his  nostrils  quivered. 

"  My  father's !"  he  cried,  in  a  tremulous  voica. 

"  Can  you  read  English  letters  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Can  you  read  the  name  that  is  cut  upon  it  ?" 

And  Brandon  pointed  to  a  place  where  soma 
letters  were  carved. 

Vijal  looked  earnestly  at  it.  Ho  saw  these 
words : 

JOHN  porra 

"  That,"  said  Brandon,  "is  what  your  father's 
brother  gave  to  me. " 

"  It's  a  lie!"  growled  Vijal,  fiercely. 

"It's  true,"  said  Brandon,  calmly,  "and  it 
was  carved  there  by  your  father 'j  own  hand. " 

Vijal  said  nothing  for  a  long  tine.  Brandon 
arose,  and  put  his  pistol  in  his  tjcket.  Vijal, 
disrncumbering  himself  from  ms  horse,  arose 
also.     The  tv.o  stood  together  on  the  road. 

F6r  hours  they  remained  there  talking.  At 
last  Brandon  remounted  and  rode  on  to  Denton. 
But  Vijal  went  back  to  the  village  of  Brandon. 
He  carried  with  him  the  creese  which  Brandon 
had  given  him. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

FATHER     AND     SOV. 

Vijal,  on  going  back  to  Brandon  village, 
went  first  to  the  inn  where  he  saw  .John.  To 
the  inquiries  which  were  eagerly  addressed  to 
him  he  answered  nothing,  but  simply  said  that 
he  wished  to  see  Potts.  John,  finding  him  im- 
practic".ble,  cursed  him  and  led  the  way  to  the 
bank. 

As  Vijal  ertered  Potts  locked  the  door  care- 
fully, and  then  anxiously  questioned  him.  Vijal 
gave  a  plain  account  of  every  thing  exactly  as  it 
had  happened,  but  with  some  important  alteca- 
tions  and  omissions.  In  the  first  place,  he  said 
nothing  whatever  of  the  long  interview  which 
had  taken  place  and  the  startling  information 
which  he  had  received.  In  the  second  place, 
he  assured  Potts  that  he  must  have  attacked  the 
wrong  man.  For  when  this  man  had  spared  his 
life  he  looked  at  him  closely  and  found  out  that 
he  was  not  the  one  that  he  ought  to  have  at- 
tacked. « 

"YoH  blasted  fool,"  cried  Potts.     "Haven't 

you  got  eyes  ?    D n  you ;  I  wish  the  fellow, 

whoever  he  is,  had  seized  you,  or  blown  your 
brains  out." 

Vijal  cast  down  his  eyes  humbly. 

" I  can  try  again,"  said  he.  "I  have  made  a 
mistake  this  time ;  the  next  time  I  will  make 
sure." 

There  w-as  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice 
so  remorseless  and  so  vengeful  that  Potts  felt  re- 
assured. 

"  You  are  a  good  lad,"  said  he,  "a  good  lad. 
And  you'll  try  again  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Vijal,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"You'll  make  sure  this  lime?" 

"I'll  make  sure  ti'is  time.  But  I  must  have 
some  one  with  me,"  he  continued.     "You  need 


COHD  AND  CREESE. 


189 


not  trouble  yourself,  ^end  John  with  me.  He 
won't  mistake.  If  he  U  with  me  1 11  make 
•ure." 

As  the  Malay  said  thia  a  brighter  and  more 
vivid  flush  shone  from  hit  eyes.  He  gave  a 
malevolent  smile,  and  his  white  teeth  glistened 
balefully.  Instantly  he  checked  the  smile,  and 
cast  down  his  eyes. 

"  A  h : "  said  Potts.  '  "That  is  very  good.  John 
shall  go.  Johnnie,  you  don't  mind  going,  do 
you  ?" 

"  I'll  go,"  baid  John,  languidly. 

"You'll  know  the  fellow,  won't  you?" 

"  I  rather  think  I  should." 

"  But  what  will  vou  do  first  ?" 

"  Go  to  Denton, '  said  John. 

"  To  Denton  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  Brandon  is  there.*'       ' 

"  How  can  he  be  ?" 

"Simply,"  said  John,  "because  I  know  the 
man  that  Vijal  attacked  must  have  been  Bran- 
don. No  other  person  answers  to  the  descrip- 
tion. No  other  person  would  be  so  quick  to 
dodge  the  cord,  and  so  quick  with  the  revolv- 
er. He  has  humbugged  Vijal  somehow,  and 
this  fool  of  a  nigger  has  believed  him.  He  was 
Brandon,  and  no  one  else,  and  I'm  going  on  his 
track." 

"Well — you're  right,  perhaps,"  said  Potts; 
"but  take  care  of  yourself,  Johnnie." 

John  gave  a  dry  smile. 

"I'll  try  to  do  so ;  and  I  hope  to  take  care  of 
others  also,"  said  he. 

"God  bless  you,  Johnnie!"  said  Potts,  affec- 
tionately, not  knowing  the  blasphemy  of  invok- 
ing th3  blessing  of  God  on  one  who  was  setting 
out  to  commit  murder. 

"You're  spooney,  dad,"  returned  John,  and 
he  left  the  bank  with  Vijal. 

John  went  back  to  tlie  inn  first,  and  after  a 
few  preparations  s.arted  for  Denton.  On  the 
way  he  amused  himself  with  coarse  jests  at  Vi- 
jal's  stupidity  in  allowing  himself  to  be  deceived 
by  Brandon,  taunted  him  with  cowardice  in 
yielding  so  easily,  and  assured  him  that  one  who 
was  so  great  a  coward  could  not  possibly  succeed 
in  any  undertaking. 

Toward  evening  they  reached  the  inn  at  Den- 
ton. John  was  anxious  not  to  show  himself,  so 
he  went  at  once  to  the  inn,  directing  Vijal  to 
keep  a  look-out  for  Brandofl  and  let  him  know 
if  he  saw  any  one  who  looked  like  him.  These 
directions  were  accompanied  and  intermingled 
with  numerous  threats  as  to  what  he  would  do  if 
Vijal  dared  to  fail  in  any  particular.  The  Ma- 
lay listened  calmly,  showing  none  of  that  impa- 
tience and  haughty  resentment  which  he  former- 
ly used  to  manifest  toward  John,  and  quietly 
promised  to  do  what  was  ordered. 

About  ten  o'clock  John  happened  to  look  out 
of  the  window.  He  saw  a  figure  standing  where 
the  light  from  the  windows  flashed  out,  which  at 
once  attracted  liis  attention.  It  was  the  man 
whom  he  sought — it  was  Brandon.  Was  he 
stopping  at  the  same  inn?  If  so,  why  had  not 
Vijal  told  him?  Ho  at  once  summoned  Vijal, 
who  came  as  calm  as  ever.  To  John's  impatient 
questions  as  to  why  he  had  not  toid  him  about 
Brandon,  he  answered  that  Brandon  had  only 
come  there  half  an  hour  previously,  and  that  he 


had  been  watching  him  ever  since  to  see  what  he 
was  going  to  do. 

"You  must  keep  on  watching  him,  then ;  do 
you  hear  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  if  yon  let  him  slip  this  time,  you  infer- 
nal nigger,  you'll  pay  dear  for  it. " 

"I'll  not  make  a  mistake  this  time,"  was 
Vijals  answer.  And  as  he  spoke  his  eyes 
gleamed,  and  again  that  balefnl  smile  passed  over 
his  face. 

"That's  the  man,"  said  John.  "  You  under- 
stand that  ?  That's  the  man  you've  got  to  fix.  do 
you  hear  ?  Don't  be  a  fool  this  time.  You  must 
manage  it  to-night,  for  I  don't  want  to  wait  here 
forever.  I  leave  it  to  you.  I  only  came  to  make 
sure  of  the  man.  I'm  tired,  and  I'm  going  to 
bed  soon.  When  I  wake  to-morrow  I  expect  to 
hear  from  you  that  you  have  finished  this  busi- 
ness.    If  you  don't,  d n  you,  I'll  wring  your 

infernal  nigger's  neck." 

"It  will  all  be  done  by  to-morrow,"  said  Vi- 
jal, calmly. 

"Then  clear  out  and  leave  roe.  I'm  going  to 
bed.  What  you've  got  to  do  is  to  watch  that 
man." 

Vijal  retired. 

The  night  passed.  When  the  following  morn- 
ing came  John  was  not  up  at  the  ordinary  break- 
fast hour.  Nine  o'clock  came.  Ten  o'clock. 
Still  he  did  not  appear. 

"He's  a  lazy  fellow,"  said  the  landlord, 
"though  he  don't  look  like  it.  And  wbere's 
his  servant ?" 

"The  servant  went  back  to  Brai  'on  at  day- 
break," was  the  answer. 

Eleven  o'clock  came.  Still  there  were  no  signs 
of  John.  There  was  a  balcony  in  the  inn  which 
ran  in  front  of  the  windows  of  the  room  occupied 
by  John.  After  knocking  at  the  door  once  or 
twice  the  landlord  tapped  at  the  window  and 
tried  to  peep  in  to  see  if  the  occupant  was 
awake  or  not.  One  part  of  the  blind  was 
drawn  a  little  aside,  and  showed  the  bed  and 
the  form  of  a  man  still  lying  there. 

"  He's  an  awful  sleeper,"  said  the  landlord. 
"  It's  twelve  o'clock,  and  he  isn't  up  yet.  Well, 
it's  his  business,  not  mine." 

About  half  an  hour  after  the  noise  of  wheels 
was  heard,  and  a  wagon  drove  swiftly  into  the 
yard  of  the  inn.  An  old  man  jumped  out,  gave 
his  horse  to  the  hostler,  and  entered  the  inn. 

He  was  somewhat  flushed  and  flurried.  His 
eyes  twinkled  brightly,  and  there  was  a  some- 
what exuberant  familiarity  in  his  address  to  the 
landlord. 

"There  was  a  party  who  stopped  here  last 
night,"  said  he,  "  that  I  wish  to  see." 

' '  There  was  only  one  person  here  last  night," 
answered  the  landlord ;  "  a  young  man — " 

"A  young  man,  yes — that's  right ;  I  want  to 
see  him." 

"Well,  as  to  that,"  said  the  landlord,  "I 
don't  know  but  you'll  have  to  wait.  He  ain't 
up  yet." 

"Isn't  he  up  yet?" 

"  No ;  he's  an  awful  sleeper.  He  went  to  bed 
last  night  early,  for  his  lights  were  out  before 
eleven,  and  now  it's  nearly  one,  and  he  isn't 
up. 

"At  any  rate,  I  must  see  him." 

"ShaUI-akehim?" 


190 


COHD  AND  CKEEjE. 


"Yes,  and  be  quick,  for  I'm  in  a  hnny." 

The  landlord  went  up  to  the  door  and  knocke'l 
loudly.  There  was  no  answer.  He  knocked  stiil 
more  loudly.  Still  no  answer.  He  then  kei)t  \\p 
an  incessant  rapping  for  fthour  ten  minutes.  Still 
there  Avas  no  answer.  He  had  tried  the  door  iie- 
fore,  but  it  was  locked  on  tlie  inside.  He  went 
around  to  the  windows  that  opened  on  the  bal- 
cony ;  these  were  o])en. 

lie  then  went  down  and  told  the  old  man  that 
the  door  was  fastened,  but  that  tlie  windows  were 
unfastened.  If  he  chose  to  go  iu  tiiere  he  might 
do  so. 

"  I  will  do  so,  said  the  other,  "for  I  must 
see  him.  I  have  business  of  importance. "  He 
went  up. 

The  landlord  and  some  of  the  servantf=,  whose 
cm-iosity  was  by  this  time  excited,  followed  afier. 


The  old  man  opened  the  window,  which  swung 
hack  on  hinges,  and  entered.  There  was  a  man 
in  the  bed. 

He  lay  motionless.  The  old  man  approached. 
He  recognized  the  face. 

A  cold  chill  went  to  his  heart.  He  tore  down 
the  coverlet,  which  concealetl  the  greater  part  of 
his  face.  Tlie  next  moment  he  fell  forward  upon 
the  bed. 

"  Johnnie  I''  he  screamed — "Johnnie !" 
There  was  no  answer.     The  face  was  rigid  and 
fixed.     Around  the  neck  was  a  faint,  bluish  line, 
a  mark  like  what  might  have  been  made  by  a 
I  cord. 

;      ' '  Johnnie,  Johnnie !"  cried  the  old  man  again, 

in  piercing  tones.     He  caught  at  the  hands  of 

j  the  figure  before  him :  he  tried  to  pidl  it  fonvard. 

I      There  was  no  response.     The  old  man  turned 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


191 


awaj  and  ruohed  to  the  window,  gasping,  with 
white  lipH,  and  bloodshot  eyes,  and  a  face  of 
horror. 

"  He  is  dead !"  he  shrieked.  "My  boy — my 
son — my  Johnnie!  Murderer!  You  have  killed 
liiin." 

The  landlord  and  the  servants  started  back  in 
horror  from  the  presence  of  this  father  in  ais  mis- 
ery. 

It  was  for  but  a  moment  that  he  stood  there. 
He  went  back  and  ilung  himself  upon  the  bed. 
Then  he  came  forth  again  and  stood  upon  the 
balcony,  motionless,  white-faced,  si)eechle!<8 — his 
lips  muttering  inaudible  words. 

A  crowd  gathered  round.  TTie  story  soon 
spread.  This  was  the  father  of  a  young  man 
who  luid  stopf)ed  at  the  inn  and  died  suddenly. 
The  crowd  that  gathered  around  the  inn  saw  the 
father  as  he  stood  on  the  balcony. 

The  dwellers  in  the  cottage  that  was  almost 
opposite  saw  him,  and  Asgcelo  brought  them  the 
news. 


CHAPTER  LVIT. 

MRS.  COMPTON's    secret. 

On  the  night  after  the  arrival  of  John,  Brandon 
had  left  Denton.  He  did  not  return  till  the  fol- 
lowing day.  On  arriving  at  the  inn  he  saw  im 
unusual  spectacle — the  old  man  on  the  balcony, 
the  crowd  of  villagers  around,  the  universal  ex- 
citement. 

On  entering  the  inn  he  found  some  one  who 
for  some  time  had  been  waiting  to  see  him.  It 
was  Philips.  Philips  had  come  early  in  the 
morning,  and  had  been  over  to  the  cottage.  He 
had  learned  all  about  the  atfair  at  the  inn,  and 
narrated  it  to  Brandon,  who  listened  with  his 
usual  calmness.  He  then  gave  him  a  letter 
froni  Frank,  which  Brandon  read  and  put  in  his 
pocket. 

Then  Philips  told  him  the  news  which  he  had 
learned  at  the  cottage  about  Langhetti.  Lan- 
ghetti  and  Despard  were  both  there  yet,  the  for- 
mer very  dangerously  ill,  the  latter  waiting  for 
some  friends.  He  also  vold  about  the  affair  on 
the  road,  the  seizure  of  Clark,  and  his  delivery 
into  the  hands  of  the  authorities. 

Brandon  heard  all  this  with  the  deepest  inter- 
est. While  the  excitement  at  the  inn  was  still 
at  its  height,  he  hurried  off  to  the  magistrate  into 
whose  hands  Clark  had  been  committed.  After 
an  interview  with  him  he  returned.  He  found 
the  excitement  unabated.  He  then  went  to  the 
cottaj;e  close  by  the  inn,  where  Beatrice  had 
found  a  home,  and  Langhetti  a  refuge.  Philips 
was  with  him. 

On  knocking  at  the  door  Asgeelo  opened  it. 
They  entered  the  parlor,  and  in  a  short  time  Mrs. 
Com])ton  appeared.  Brandon's  first  inquiry  was 
after  Langhetti. 

"He  is  about  the  same,"  said  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton. 

"  Does  the  doctor  hold  out  any  hopes  of  his 
recovery?"  asked  Brandon,  anxiously. 

"Very  little,"  said  Mrs.  Compton. 

"Who  nurses  him?" 

"  Miss  Potts  and  Mr.  Despard." 

"  Are  they  both  here  ?" 

"Yes." 

Brandon  was  silent. 


"  I  will  go  and  tell  them  that  you  are  here,* 
said  Mrs.  Compton. 

Brandon  made  no  reply,  and  Mrs.  Compton, 
taking  silence  for  assent,  went  to  announce  hit 
arrival. 

In  a  short  time  they  appeared.  Beatrice  en- 
tered first.  She  was  grave,  and  cold,  and  solemn  ; 
Des|(ftrd  was  gloomy  and  stem.  They  both  shook 
hands  with  Brandon  in  silence.  Beatrice  gave 
her  hand  without  a  word,  lifeless!}*  and  coldly ; 
Despard  took  his  hand  abstractedly. 

Brandon  looked  earnestly  at  Beatrice  as  sha 
stood  there  before  him,  calm,  sad,  passionless, 
almost  repellent  in  her  demeanor,  and  wondered 
what  the  cause  might  be  of  such  a  change. 

Mrs.  t^ompton  stood  apart-at  a  little  distance, 
near  Philips,  and  looked  on  with  a  strange  ex' 
pression,  half  wistful,  half  tiriid. 

There  was  a  silence  wMch  at  length  became 
embarrassing.  From  the  room  where  they  were 
sitting  the  inn  could  plainly  be  seen,  with  the 
crowd  outside.  Beatrice's  eyes  were  directed 
toward  this.  Despard  said  not  a  word.  At  an- 
other time  he  might  have  been  strongly  interested 
in  this  man,  who  on  so  many  accounts  was  so 
closely  connected  with  him ;  but  now  the  power 
of  some  dominant  and  all-engrossing  idea  pos- 
sessed him,  and  he  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of 
any  thing  whatever  eithe"  '^hout  the  house  or 
within. 

After  looking  in  silence  at  the  inn  for  a  long 
time  Beatrice  withdrew  her  gaze.  Brandon  re- 
garded her  with  a  fixed  and  earnest  glance,  as 
though  he  would  read  her  inmost  soul.  IShe 
looked  at  him,  and  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"You  abhor  me!"  said  he,  in  a  loud,  thrilling 
voice. 

She  said  nothing,  but  pointed  toward  the  inn. 

"  You  know  all  about  that?" 

Beatrice  bowed  her  head  silently. 

"  And  you  look  upon  me  as  guilty?" 

She  gazed  at  him,  but  said  nothing.  It  was  a 
cold,  austere  gaze,  without  one  touch  of  softness. 

"After  all,"  said  she,  "he  was  my  father. 
You  had  your  vengeance  to  take,  and  you  have 
taken  it.  You  may  now  exult,  but  my  heart 
bleeds." 

Brandon  started  to  his  feet.  • 

"  As  God  lives,"  he  cried,  "I  did  not  do  that 
thing!" 

Beatrice  looked  up  mournfully  and  inquiringly. 

"If  it  had  been  his  base  life  which  1  sought," 
said  Brandon,  vehemently,  '  I  might  long  ago 
have  taken  it.  He  was  surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  my  power.  He  could  not  escape.  Officers 
of  the  law  stood  ready  to  do  my  bidding.  Yet  I 
allowed  him  to  leave  the  Hall  in  safety.  I  might 
have  taken  his  heart's-blood.  I  might  have  hand- 
ed him  over  to  the  law.     1  did  not. " 

"No,"  said  Beatrice,  in  icy  tones,  "you  did 
not :  you  so':ght  a  deeper  vengeance.  You  cared 
not  to  take  his  life.  It  was  ~\veeter  to  you  to 
take  his  son's  life  and  give  hun  agony.  Deatli 
would  have  been  insufficient — anguish  was  what 
you  wished. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  blame  you,"  she  contin- 
ued, while  Brandon  looked  at  her  without  a 
word.  "  Who  am  I — a  polluted  one,  of  the  ac- 
cursed brood — who  am  I,  to  stand  between  you 
and  him,  or  to  l)lame  you  if  you  seek  for  venge- 
ance? I  am  nothing.  You  have  done  kind- 
nesses to  me  which  I  now  wish  were  undone. 


193 


CORD  AND  CKEESE. 


Uh  that  I  had  died  under  the  hand  of  the  pirates !  \ 
Oh  that  the  ocean  had  swept  me  down  to  death  ' 
with  all  its  waves !    Then  I  should  not  have  lived 
to  see  this  day !"  j 

Roused  by  her  vehemence  Despard  started 
from  his  absti  action  and  looked  around. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  he,  "as  if  you  were 
blaming  some  one  for  inflicting  suifering  on  a 
man  for  whom  no  suffering  can  be  too  great. 
What !  can  you  think  of  your  friend  as  he  lies 
there  in  the  next  room  in  h"  agony,  dying,  torn 
to  pieces  by  this  man's  agency,  and  have  pity  for 
him?" 

"  Oh !"  cried  Beatrice,  "  is  he  not  my  father?" 

Mrs.  Compton  looked  around  with  staring 
eyes,  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  Her  lips 
moved — she  began  to  speak,  but  the  words  died 
away  on  her  lips. 

"  Your  father !"  said  Despard ;  "his  acts  have 
cut  him  off  from  a  daughter's  sympathy." 

"Yet  he  has  a  father's  feelings,  at  least  for 
his  dead  son.  Never  shall  I  forget  his  look  of 
anguish  as  he  stood  on  the  balcony.  His  face 
was  turned  this  way.   He  seemed  to  reproach  me. " 

' '  Let  me  tell  you, "  cried  Despard,  harshly.  ' '  He 
has  not  yet  made  atonement  for  his  crimes.  This 
is  but  the  beginning.  I  have  a  debt  of  vengeance 
to  extort  from  iiim.  One  scoundrel  lias  been 
handed  over  to  the  law,  another  lies  dead,  anoth- 
er is  in  London  in  the  hands  of  Langhetti's  friends, 
the  Carbonari.  The  worst  one  yet  remains,  and 
my  father's  voice  cries  to  me  day  and  night  from 
that  dreadful  ship." 

"Your  father's  voice!"  cried  Beatrice.  She 
looked  at  Despard.  Their  eyes  met.  Some- 
thing passed  between  them  in  that  glance  which 
brought  back  the  old,  mysterious  feeling  which 
she  had  known  before.  Despard  rose  hastily  and 
left  the  room. 

"  In  God's  name,"  cried  Brandon,  "  I  say  that 
this  man's  life  was  not  sought  by  me,  nor  the 
life  of  any  of  his.  I  will  tell  you  all.  When  he 
compassed  the  death  of  Uracao,  of  whom  you 
know,  ho  obtained  possession  of  his  son,  then  a 
mere  boy,  and  carried  him  away.  He  kept  this 
lad  wi  h  him  and  brought  him  up  with  the  idea 
that  he  was  his  best  friend,  and  that  he  would 
.  one  day  show  him  his  father's  murderer.  After 
I  made  myself  known  to  him,  he  told  Vijal  that 
I.  was  this  murderer.  Vijal  tried  to  assassinate 
me.  I  foiled  him,  and  could  have  killed  him. 
But  I  spared  his  life.  I  then  told  him  the  truth. 
That  is  all  that  I  have  done.  Of  course,  I  knew 
that  Vijal  would  seek  for  vengeance.  "That  was 
not  my  concern.  Since  Potts  had  sent  him  to 
seek  my  life  under  a  lie,  I  sent  him  away  with  a 
knowledge  of  the  truth.  I  do  not  repent  that  I 
told  him ;  nor  is  there  any  guilt  chargeable  to 
me.  The  man  that  lies  dead  there  is  not  my 
victim.  Yet  if  he  were  —  oh,  Beatrice !  if  he 
were — what  then  ?  Could  that  atone  for  what  I 
have  suffered?  My  father  ruined  and  broken- 
hearted and  dying  in  a  poor-house  calls  to  me 
always  for  vengeance.  My  mother  suffering  in 
the  emigrant  ship,  and  dying  of  the  plague  amidst 
horrors  without  a  name  calls  to  me.  Above  all, 
my  sweet  sister,  my  pure  Edith — " 

"  Edith !"  interrupted  Beatrice— "  Edith !" 

"Yes ;  do  you  not  know  that  ?  She  was  bur- 
ied alive. " 

"  What !"'  cried  Beatrice ;  "  is  it  possible  that 
you  do  not  know  that  she  is  alive  ?" 


"Alive!"      .  ■ 

"  Yes,  alive ;  for  wjen  I  was  at  Holby  I  saw 
her." 

Brandon  stood  speechless  with  surprise. 

"  Langhetti  saved  her,"  said  Be^.trice.  "  His 
sister  has  charge  of  her  now. " 

"Where,  where  is  she?"  asked  Brandon, 
wildly. 

"  In  a  convent  at  London." 

At  this  moment  Despard  entered. 

"  Is  this  true  ?"  ask^  Brandon,  with  a  deeper 
agitation  than  had  ever  yet  been  seen  in  him — 
"my  sister,  is  it  true  that  she  is  not  dead?" 

"It  is  true.  I  should  have  told  you,"  said 
Despard,  "but  other  thoughts  drove  it  from 
my  mind,  and  I  forgot  that  you  might  be  ig- 
norant." 

"How  is  it  possible?  I  was  at  Quebec  my- 
self. I  have  sought  over  the  world  after  my  rela- 
tives—" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Despa  ^.. 

He  sat  down  and  began  to  tell  the  story  of 
Edith's  voyage  and  all  that  Langhetti  had  done, 
down  to  the  time  of  his  rescue  of  her  from  death. 
The  recital  filled  Brandon  with  such  deep  amaze- 
ment that  he  had  not  a  word  to  say.  He  listened 
like  one  stupefied. 

"Thank  God!"  he  cried  at  last  when  it  was 
ended;  "thank  God,  I  am  spared  this  last  an- 
guish ;  I  am  freed  from  the  thought  which  for 
years  has  been  most  intolerable.  The  memories 
that  remain  are  bitter  enough,  but  they  are  not 
so  terrible  as  this.  But  I  must  see  her.  I  must 
find  her.     Where  is  she  ?" 

"  Make  yourself  easy  on  that  score,"  said  Des- 
pard, calmly.  "  She  will  be  here  to-morrow  or 
the  day  after.  I  have  written  to  Langhetti's 
sister;  'le  will  come,  and  will  bring  your  sis- 
ter with  her." 

"I  should  have  told  you  so  before,"  said  Bea- 
trice, "but  my  own  troubles  drove  every  thing 
else  from  my  mind." 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Brandon,  "for  intruding 
now.  I  came  in  to  learr  about  Langhetti.  Yon 
look  upon  me  with  horror.    I  will  withdraw. " 

Beatrice  bowed  her  head,  and  tears  streamed 
from  her  eyes.     Brandon  took  her  hand. 

"Farewell,"  he  murmured;  "farewell,  Bea- 
trice. You  will  not  condemn  me  when  I  say 
that  I  am  innocent  ?" 

"I  am  accursed,"  she  murmured. 

Despard  looked  at  these  two  with  deep  anxiety. 

"Stay,"  said  he  to  Brandon.  "There  is 
something  which  must  be  explained.  There  is 
a  secret  which  Langhetti  has  had  for  years,  and 
which  he  has  several  times  been  on  the  point  of 
telling.  I  have  just  spoken  to  him  and  told  him 
that  you  are  here.  He  says  he  will  tell  his  secret 
now,  whatever  it  is.  He  wishes  us  all  to  come 
in — and  you  too,  especially,"  said  Despard,  look- 
ing at  Mrs.  Compton. 

The  poor  old  creature  began  to  tremble. 

"Don't  be  afraid,  old  woman,"  said  Philipe. 
"Take  my  arm  and  I'll  protect  you." 

She  rose,  and,  leaning  on  his  arm,  followed 
the  others  into  Langhetti's  room.  He  was  fear- 
fully emaciated.  His  material  -frame,  worn  down 
by  pain  and  confinement,  seemed  about  to  dis- 
solve and  let  free  that  soaring  soul  of  his,  whose 
fiery  impulses  had  for  years  chafed  against  the 
prison  bars  of  its  mortal  inclosure.  His  eyes 
shone  darkly  and  luminously  from  their  deep, 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


193 


hollow  sockets,  and  upon  his  thin,  wan,  white 
lips  there  was  a  faint  smile  of  welcome — faint 
like  the  smile  of  the  sick,  yet  sweet  as  the  smile 
of  an  angel. 

It  was  with  such  a  smile  that  he  greeted  Bran- 
don, and  with  both  of  his  thin  white  hands 
pressed  the  strong  and  muscular  hand  of  the 
other. 

"And  you  are  Edith's  brother,"  he  said. 
"Edith's  brother,"  he  repeated,  resting  lovingly 
npon  that  name,  Edith.  "  She  always  said  you 
were  alive,  and  once  she  told  me  she  should  live 
tp  see  you.  Welcome,  brother  of  my  Edith !  I 
am  a  dying  man.  Edith  said  her  other  brother 
was  alive — Frank.  Where  is  Frank  ?  Will  he 
not  come  to  stand  by  the  bedside  of  his  dying 
friend  ?     He  did  so  once. " 

"He  will  come,"  said  Brandon,  in  a  voice 
choked  with  emotion,  as  he  pressed  the  hand  of 
the  dying  mar..     "  Ele  will  come,  and  at  once." 

"And  you  will  be  all  here,  then — sweet  friends ! 
ItisweU." 

He  paused. 

"  Bice !"  said  he  at  last. 

Beatrice,  who  was  sitting  by  his  head,  bent 
down  toward  him. 

"Bice,"  said  Langhetti.  "My  pocket-book 
is  in  my  coat,  and  if  you  open  the  inside  pockst 
vou  will  find  something  wrapped  in  paper.  Bring 
It  to  me. " 

Beatrice  found  the  pocket-book  and  opened  it 
as  directed.  In  the  inside  pocket  there  was  a 
thin,  small  parcel.  She  opened  it  and  drew  forth 
a  very  small  baby's  stocking. 

"Look  at  the  mark,"  said  Langhetti. 

Beatrice  did  so,  and  saw  two  letters  marked 
on  it— B.  D. 

"  This  was  given  me  by  your  nurse  at  Hong 
Kong.  She  said  your  things  were  all  marked 
with  those  letters  when  you  were  first  brought  to 
her.  She  did  not  know  what  it  meant.  '  B' 
meant  Beatrice ;  but  what  did  '  D'  mean  ?" 

All  around  that  bedside  exchanged  glances  of 
wonder.     Mrs.  Compton  was  most  agitated. 

"Take  me  away,"  she  murmurod  to  Philips. 

But  Philipj  would  not. 

"  Cheer  up,  old  woman !"  said  he.  "There's 
nothing  to  fear  now.    That  devil  won't  hurt  you. " 

"  Now,  in  my  deep.interest  in  you,  and  in  my 
affection,  I  tried  to  find  out  what  this  meant. 
The  nurse  and  I  often  talked  about  it.  She  told 
me  that  your  father  never  cared  particularly 
about  you,  and  that  it  was  strange  for  your  cloth- 
ing to  be  marked  '  D'  if  your  name  was  Potts. 
It  was  a  thing  which  greatly  troubled  her.  I 
made  many  inquiries.  I  found  out  about  the 
Manilla  murder  case.  From  that  moment  I  sus- 
pected tha^  '  D'  meant  Despard. 

"  Oh,  Heavens !"  sighed  Beatrice,  in  an  agony 
of  suspense.  Brandon  and  Despard  stood  mo- 
tionless, waiting  for  something  further. 

"This  is  what  I  tried  to  solve.  I  made  in- 
quiries every  where.  At  last  I  gave  it  up.  But 
when  circumstances  threw  Beatrice  again  in  my 
way  I  tried  again.  I  have  always  been  baffled. 
There  is  only  one  who  can  tell — only  one.  She 
is  here,  in  this  room ;  and,  in  the  name  of  God, 
I  call  upon  her  to  speak  oni  and  tell  the  truth." 

"Who?"  cried  Despard,  while  he  and  Bran- 
don both  looked  earnestly  at  Mrs.  Compton. 

"Mrs.  Compton!"  said  Langhetti;  and  his 
Toice  seemed  to  die  awav  from  exhaustion. 


Mrs.  Compton  was  seized  with  a  panic  more 
overpowering  than  usual.    She  gasped  for  breath. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  Lord!  Spare 
me !  spare  me !     He'll  kill  me !" 

Brandon  walked  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Mrs.  Compton,"  said  he,  in  a  calm,  resolute 
voice,  "your  timidity  has  been  your  cui-se.  There 
is  no  need  for  fear  now.  I  will  j  rotect  yon.  The 
man  whom  you  have  feared  so  many  years  is  now 
ruined,  helpless,  and  miserable.  I  ■  )uld  destroy 
him  at  this  moment  if  I  chose.  You  are  fooU.sh 
if  you  fear  him.  Your  son  is  with  you.  His  arm 
supports  you,  and  I  stand  here  ready  to  protect 
both  you  and  your  son.  Speak  out,  and  tell  what 
you  know.  Your  husband  is  still  living.  He  longs 
for  your  return.  You  and  your  son  are  free  fi-om 
your  enemies.  Trust  in  me,  and  you  shall  both 
go  back  to  him  and  live  in  peace." 

Tears  fell  from  Mrs.  Compton's  eyes.  She 
seized  Brandon's  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  thin 
lips. 

"  You  will  protect  me?"  said  she. 

"Yes." 

"  You  will  save  me  from  him  ?"  she  persisted, 
in  a  voice  of  agony. 

"Yes,  and  from  all  others  like  him.  Do  not 
fear.     Speak  out." 

Mrs.  Compton  clung  to  the  arm  of  her  son. 
She  drew  a  long  breath.  She  looked  up  into  his 
face  as  though  to  gain  courage,  and  then  began. 

It  was  a  long  story.  She  had  been  attendant 
and  nui-se  to  the  wife  of  Colonel  Despard,  who  had 
died  in  ginng  birth  to  a  child.  Potts  had  brought 
news  of  her  death,  but  had  said  nothing  whatever 
about  the  child.  Colonel  Despard  knew  nothing 
of  it.  Being  at  a  distance  at  the  time,  on  duty, 
he  had  heard  but  the  one  fact  of  his  wife's  deatb^ 
and  all  other  things  were  forgotten.  He  had  not 
even  made  inquiries  as  to  whether  the  child 
which  he  had  expected  was  alive  or  dead,  but 
had  at  once  given  way  to  the  grief  of  the  be- 
reavement, and  had  hurried  oft". 

In  his  designs  on  Colonel  Despard,  Potts  fear- 
ed that  the  knowledge  of  the  existence  of  a  child 
might  keep  him  in  India,  and  distract  his  mind 
from  its  sorrow.  Therefore  he  was  the  more 
anxious  not  only  to  keep  this  secret,  but  also  to 
prevent  it  from  ever  being  known  to  Colonel 
Despard.  With  this  idea  he  hurried  the  prep- 
aration of  the  Vishnu  to  such  an  extent  that  it 
was  ready  for  sea  almost  immediately,  and  left 
with  Colonel  Despard  on  that  ill-fated  voyage. 

Mrs.  Compton  had  \yien  left  in  India  with  the 
child.  Her  son  joined  her,  in  company  with 
John,  who,  though  only  a  boy,  had  the  vices 
of  a  grown  man.  Months  passed  before  Potts 
came  back.  He  then  took  her  along  with  the 
child  to  China,  and  left  the  latter  with  a  respect- 
able woman  at  Hong  Kong,  who  was  the  widow 
of  a  British  naval  officer.  The  child  was  Bea- 
trice Despard. 

Potts  always  feared  that  Mrs.  Compton  might 
divulge  his  secret,  and  therefore  always  kept  her 
with  him.  Timid  by  nature  to  an  unusual  degree, 
the  wretched  woman  was  in  constant  fear  for  her 
life,  and  as  years  passed  on  this  fear  was  not  less- 
ened. The  sufferings  which  she  felt  from  this 
terror  were  atoned  for,  however,  by  the  constant 
presence  of  her  son,  who  remained  in  connection 
with  Potts,  influenced  chiefly  by  the  ascendency 
which  this  villain  had  over  a  man  of  his  weak 
and  timid  nature.     Potts  had  brought  them  to 


104 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


England,  and  they  had  lived  in  different  places, 
until  at  huit  Brandon  Hall  had  fallen  into  his 
hands.  Of  the  former  occupants  of  Brandon 
Hall,  Mrs.  Compton  knew  almost  nothing.  Very 
little  had  ever  heen  said  about  them  to  her.  She 
knew  carcely  any  thing  about  them,  except  that 
their  names  were  Brandon,  and  that  they  had 
suffered  misfortunes. 

Finally,  this  Beatrice  was  Beatrice  Despard, 
the  daughter  of  Colonel  Despard  and  the  sister 
of  the  clergyman  then  present.  She  herself,  in- 
stead of  being  the  daughter  of  Potts,  had  been 
one  of  his  victims,  and  had  suflered  not  the  least 
at  his  hands. 

This  astounding  revelation  was  checked  by 
frequent  interruptions.  The  actual  story  of  her 
true  parentage  overwhelmed  Beatrice.  This  was 
the  awful  thought  which  had  occurred  to  herself 
frequently  before.  This  was  what  had  moved 
her  so  deeply  in  reading  the  manuscript  of  her 
father  on  that  African  Isle.  This  also  was  the 
thing  which  had  always  made  her  hate  with  such 
intensity  the  miscreant  who  pretended  to  be  her 
father. 

Now  she  was  overwhelmed.  She  threw  her- 
self into  the  arms  of  her  brother  and  wept  upon 
his  breast.  Courtenay  Despard  for  a  moment 
rose  above  the  gloom  that  oppressed  him,  and 
pressed  to  his  heart  this  sister  so  strangely  dis- 
covered. Brandon  stood  apart,  looking  on, 
shaken  to  the  soul  and  unnerved  by  the  deep  joy 
of  that  unparalleled  discovery.  Amidst  all  the 
speculations  in  which  he  had  indulged  the  very 
possibility  of  this  had  never  suggested  itself.  He 
had  believed  most  implicitly  all  along  that  Bea- 
trice was  in  reality  the  daughter  of  his  mortal 
enemy.  Now  the  discovery  of  the  truth  came 
upon  him  with  overwhelming  force. 

She  raised  herself  from  her  brother's  embrace, 
and  turned  and  looked  upon  the  man  whom  she 
adored — the  one  who,  as  she  said,  had  over  and 
over  again  saved  her  life ;  the  one  whose  life  she, 
too,  in  her  turn  had  saved,  with  whom  she  had 
passed  so  man}*  adventurous  and  momentous 
days — days  of  alternating  peace  and  storm,  of 
varying  hope  and  despair.  To  him  she  owed 
every  thing ;  to  him  she  owed  even  the  rapture 
of  this  moment. 

As  their  eyes  met  they  revealed  all  their  in- 
most thoughts.  There  was  now  no  barrier  be- 
tween them.  Vanished  was  the  insuperable  ob- 
stacle, vanished  the  impassable  gulf.  They  stood 
side  by  side.  The  enemy  of  this  man — his  foe, 
his  victim — was  also  hers.  Whatever  he  might 
suffer,  whatever  anguish  might  have  been  on  the 
face  of  that  old  man  who  had  looked  at  her  from 
the  balcony,  she  had  clearly  no  part  nor  lot  now 
in  that  suffering  or  that  anguish.  He  was  the 
murderer  of  her  father.  She  was  not  the  daugh- 
ter of  this  man.  She  was  of  no  vulgar  or  sordid 
race.  Her  blood  was  no  longer  polluted  or  ac- 
cursed. She  was  of  pure  and  noble  lineage. 
She  was  a  Despard. 

"Beatrice,"  said  Brandon,  with  a  deep,  fervid 
emotion  in  his  voice;  "Beatrice,  I  am  yours, 
and  you  are  mine.  Beatrice,  it  was  a  lie  that 
kept  us  apart.  My  life  is  yours,  and  yours  is 
mine." 

He  thought  of  nothing  but  her.  He  spoke 
with  burning  impetuosity.  His  words  sank  into 
her  sonl.'  His  eyes  devoured  hers  in  the  passion 
of  tlieir  glance. 


"  Beatrice — my  Beatrice !"  he  said,  "  Beatrice 
Despard — " 

He  spoke  low,  bending  his  head  to  hers.  Her 
head  sank  toward  his  breast. 

"Beatrice,  do. you  now  reproach  me?"  he 
murmured. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  wh''  .ears  stood  in 
her  eyes.  Brandon  seized  it  and  covered  it  with 
kisses.  Despard  saw  this.  In  the  midst  of  the 
anguish  of  his  face  a  smile  shone  forth,  like  sun- 
shine out  of  a  clouded  sky.  He  looked  at  these 
two  for  a  moment. 

Langhetti's  eyes  were  closed.  Mrs.  Compton 
and  her  son  were  talking  apart.  Despard  looked 
upon  the  lovers. 

"Let  thei.i  love,"  he  murmured  to  himself; 
"let  them  love  and  be  happy.  Heaven  has  its 
favorites.  I  do  not  envy  them ;  I  bless  them, 
though  I  love  without  hope.  Heaven  has  its  fa- 
vorites, but  I  am  an  outcast  from  that  favor." 

A  shudder  passed  through  him.  He  drew 
himself  up. 

"Since  love  is  denied  me,"  he  thought,  "I 
can  at  least  have  vengeance." 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

THE   MALAYS   VENGEANCE. 

Some  hours  afterward  Despard  called  Bran- 
don outside  the  cottage,  and  walked  along  the 
bank  which  overhung  the  beach.  Arriving  at  a 
point  several  hundred  yards  distant  from  the  cot- 
tage he  stopped.  Brandon  noticed  a  deeper 
gloom  upon  his  face  and  a  sterner  purpose  on  his 
resolute  mouth. 

"  I  have  called  you  aside,"  said  Despard,  "  to 
say  that  I  am  going  on  a  journey.  I  may  be 
back  immediately.  If  I  do  not  return,  will  you 
say  to  any  one  who  may  ask" — and  here  he  paused 
for  a  moment — "say  to  any  one  who  may  ask, 
that  I  have  gone  away  on  important  business,  and 
that  the  time  of  my  coming  is  uncertain." 

"  I  suppose  you  can  be  heard  of  at  Holby,  in 
case  of  need." 

"  1  nm  never  ;oing  back  again  to  Holby." 

Brandon  looked  surprised. 

"To  one  like  you,"  said  Despard,  "I  do  not 
object  to  tell  my  i)ui-pose.  You  know  what  it  is 
to  seek  for  Aengeance.  The  only  feeling  that  I 
have  is  that.  Love,  tenderness,  affection,  all 
are  idle  Avords  with  me. 

' '  There  are  three  who  pre-eminently  were  con- 
cerned in  my  father's  death,"  continued  Despard. 
"One  was  Cigole.  The  Carbonari  have  him. 
Langhetti  tells  me  that  he  must  die,  unless  he 
himself  inter])oses  to  save  him.  And  I  think 
Langhetti  will  never  so  interpose.  Langhetti  is 
dying — another  stimulus  to  vengeance. 

"The  one  who  has  been  the  cause  of  this  is 
Clark,  another  one  of  my  father's  murderers.  He 
is  in  the  hands  of  the  law.  His  punishment  is 
certain. 

"There  yet  remains  the  third,  and  the  worst. 
Your  vengeance  is  satisfied  on  him.  Mine  is  not. 
Not  even  the  sight  of  that  miscrennt  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a  bereaved  father  could  for  one  moment 
move  me  to  pitj-.  I  took  note  of  the  agony  of 
his  face.  I  watched  his  grief  with  joy.  I  am 
going  to  com])lete  that  joy.  He  must  die,  and 
no  mortal  can  save  him  from  my  hands." 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


195 


The  deep,  stem  tones  of  Despard  were  like  the 
knell  of  doom,  and  there  was  in  them  such  ae- 
terminate  viiidictiveiiesy  tiiat  lirandon  saw  all 
remonstrance  to  Im;  useless. 

He  marked  the  pale  sad  face  of  this  man.  He 
saw  in  it  the  traces  of  soitow  of  longer  standing 
than  any  which  he  might  have  felt  i,bout  the 
manuscript  that  he  had  read.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  man  who  had  suffered  so  much  that  life  had 
become  a  burden.   . 

"  You  are  a  clergyman,"  said  Brandon  at 
length,  with  a  faint  h.ope  that  an  appeal  to  his 
profession  might  have  some  etfejt. 

Despard  smiled  cynically. 

"  I  am  a  man,"  said  he. 

"Can  not  the  disco veiy  of  a  sister,"  asked 
Brandon,  "atone  in  some  degree  for  your  grief 
about  your  father  ?" 

Despard  shook  his  head  weaiily. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  must  do  something,  and 
only  one  purpose  is  before  me  now.  I  see  your 
motive.  You  wish  to  stop  short  of  taking  that 
devil's  life.  It  is  useless  to  remonstrate.  My 
mind  is  made  up.  Perhaps  I  may  come  back 
unsuccessful.  If  so — I  must  be  resigned,  I  sup- 
pose. At  any  rate  you  know  my  purjjose,  and 
can  let  those  who  ask  after  me  know,  in  a  general 
way,  what  1  have  said." 


With  a  slight  bow  Despard  walked  away,  leav- 
ing Brandon  standing  there  filled  with  thoughts 
which  were  half  mournful,  half  remorseful. 

On  leaving  Brandon  Despard  went  at  once  to 
the  inn.  The  crowd  without  had  dwindled  away 
to  half  a  dozen  people,  who  were  still  talking 
about  the  one  event  of  the  day.  Making  his 
way  through  these  he  entered  the  inn. 

The  landlord  stood  there  with  a  puzzled  face, 
discusshig  with  several  friends  the  case  of  the 
day.  More  particularly  he  was  troubled  by  the 
sudden  departure  of  the  old  man,  v.ho  about  an 
hour  previously  had  started  off  in  a  great  hurry, 
leaving  no  directions  whatever  as  to  what  was  to 
be  done  with  the  body  up  staii-s.  It  was  this 
which  now  perplexed  the  landlord. 

Despard  listened  attentively  to  the  conversa- 
tion. The  landlord  mentioned  that  Potts  had 
taken  the  road  to  Brandon.  The  servant  who 
had  been  with  the  young  man  had  not  been  seen. 
If  the  old  man  should  not  return  what  was  to  be 
done  ? 

This  was  enough  for  Despard,  who  had  his 
horse  saddled  without  delay  and  started  also  on 
the  Brandon  road.  He  rode  on  swiftly  for  some 
time,  hoi)ing  to  overtake  the  man  whom  he  pur- 
sued. He  rode,  however,  several  miles  with- 
out coming  in  sight  of  him  or  of  anj'  one  like 


IT    WAS    I'OTTS. 


1« 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


him.  At  last  he  reached  that  hollow  which  had 
been  the  scene  of  his  encounter  with  Clark.  As 
he  descended  into  it  he  saw  a  group  of  men  by 
the  road-side  surrounding  some  object.  In  the 
middle  of  the  road  was  a  farmer's  wagon,  and  a 
horse  was  standing  in  the  distance. 

Despard  rode  np  and  saw  the  prostrate  figure 
of  a  man.  He  dismounted.  The  farmers  stood 
aside  and  disclosed  the  face. 

It  was  Potts. 

Deapard  stooped  down.  It  was  already  dusk ; 
but  even  in  that  dim  light  he  saw  the  coils  of  a 
thin  cord  wound  tightly  abou*.  the  neck  of  this 
victim,  from  one  end  of  which  a  leaden  bullet 
hung  down. 

By  that  light  also  he  saw  the  hilt  of  a  weapon 
which  had  been  plunged  into  his  heai't,  from  which 
the  blood  had  flowed  in  torrents. 

It  was  a  Malay  ci'eese.  Upon  the  handle  was 
carven  a  name : 

JOHN  POTTS. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 
Aftirc  TiXivraiov  dirvaafiov  luittv. 

The  excitement  which  had  prevailed  through 
the  village  of  Denton  was  intensified  by  the  ar- 
rival there  of  the  body  of  the  old  man.  For  his 
mysterious  death  no  one  could  account  except 
one  person. 

That  one  was  Brandon,  whom  Despard  sur- 
prised by  his  speedy  return,  and  to  whom  he 
narrated  the  circumstances  of  the  discovery. 
Brandon  knew  who  it  was  that  could  wield  that 
cord,  what  arm  it  was  that  had  held  that  weapon, 
and  what  heart  it  was  that  was  animated  by  suf- 
ficient vengeance  to  strike  these  blows. 

Despard,  finding  his  purpose  thus  unexpected- 
ly taken  away,  remained  in  the  village  and  wait- 
ed, iheie  was  one  whom  he  wished  to  see 
again.  C)n  the  following  day  Frank  Brandon 
arrived  fiom  London.  He  met  Langhetti  w'th 
deep  emotion,  and  learned  from  his  brother  the 
astonishing  story  of  Edith. 

On  the  following  day  that  long-lost  sister  her- 
self appeared  in  company  with  Mrs.  Thornton. 
Her  form,  always  fragile,  now  appeared  frailer 
than  ever,  her  face  had  a  deeper  pallor,  her  eyes 
an  intenser  lustre,  her  expression  was  more  un- 
earthly. The  joy  which  the  brothers  felt  at  find- 
ing their  sister  was  subdued  by  an  involuntary 
awe  which  was  inspired  by  her  presence.  She 
seemed  to  them  as  she  had  seemed  to  others, 
like  one  who  had  arisen  from  the  dead. 

At  the  sight  of  her  Langhetti's  face  grew  ra- 
diant— all  pain  seemed  to  leave  him.  She  bent 
over  him,  and  their  wan  lips  met  in  the  only  kiss 
which  they  had  ever  exchanged,  with  all  that 
deep  love  which  they  had  felt  for  one  another. 
She  sat  by  his  bedside.  She  seemed  to  appro- 
priate him  to  herself.  The  others  acknowledged 
tills  quiet  claim  and  gave  way  to  it. 

As  she  kissed  Langhetti's  lips  he  murmured 
faintly : 

"  I  knew  you  would  come." 

"Yes,"  said  Edith.     "  We  will  go  together." 

"Yes,  sweetest  and  dearest,"  said  Langhetti. 
"And  therefore  we  meet  now  never  to  part 
again." 

She  looked  at  him  fondly. 


"The  time  of  our  l^■liTerance  is  near,  oh  my 
friend." 

"Near,"  repeated  Langhetti,  with  a  smile  of 
ecstasy — "  near.  Yes,  you  have  already  by  your 
presence  brought  me  nearer  to  my  immortality." 

Mrs.  Thornton  was  pale  and  wan ;  and  the 
shork  which  she  felt  at  the  sight  of  her  brother 
at  first  overcame  her. 

Despard  said  nothing  to  her  through  the  day, 
but  as  evening  came  on  he  went  up  to  her  and  in 
a  low  voice  said,  "  Let  ns  take  a  walk." 

Mrs.  Thonitwn  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and 
then  put  on  her  bonnet.  It  was  quite  dark  as 
they  left  the  house.  They  walked  along  the 
road.     The  sea  was  on  their  left. 

"This  is  the  last  that  we  shall  see  of  one  an- 
other. Little  Plavmate, "  said  Despard,  after  a  long 
silence.     "  I  have  left  Holby  forever." 

"  Left  Holby !  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Thornton,  anxiously. 

"To  join  the  army." 

"The  army!"  .     i     -  . 

"Little  Playmate,"  said  Despard,  "cTcn  my 
discovery  of  my  father's  death  has  not  changed 
me.  Even  my  thir&t  for  vengeance  '^ould  not 
take  the  place  of  my  love.  Listen — I  liung  my- 
self with  all  the  ardor  that  I  could  conunand  into 
the  pursuit  of  my  father's  murderers.  I  forced 
myself  to  an  unnatural  pitch  of  pitilessness  and 
vindictiveness.  I  set  out  to  pursue  one  .f  the 
worst  of  these  men  with  the  full  determination 
to  kill  him.  God  saved  me  from  blood-guilti- 
ness. I  found  the  man  dead  in  the  road.  After 
this  all  my  passion  for  vengeance  died  out,  and  I 
was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  old  love  and 
the  old  despair.  But  each  of  ns  would  die  rather 
than  do  wrong,  or  go  on  in  a  wrong  course.  The 
only  thing  left  for  us  is  to  separate  forever." 

"Yes,  forever,"  murmured  Mrs.  Thornton. 

"Ah,  Little  Playmate,"  he  continued,  taking 
her  hand,  "  you  are  the  one  who  was  not  only 
my  sweet  companion  but  the  bright  ideal  of  my 
youth.  You  always  stood  transfigured  in  my 
eyes.  You,  Teresa,  were  in  my  mind  something 
perfect — a  bright,  biilliant  being  unlike  any  oth- 
er. Whether  you  were  really  what  I  believed 
you  mattered  not  so  far  as  the  effect  upon  me 
was  concerned.  Ypu  were  at  once  a  real  and  an 
ideal  being.  I  believed  in  you,  and  believe  in 
you  yet. 

"I  was  not  a  lover;  I  was  a  devotee.  My 
feelings  toward  you  are  such  as  Dante  describes 
his  feelings  toward  his  Beatrice.  My  love  is  ten- 
der and  reverential.  I  exalt  you  to  a  plane  above 
my  own.  What  I  say  may  sound  extravagant  to 
you,  but  it  is  actual  fact  with  me.  Why  it  should 
be  so  I  can  not  tell.  I  can  only  say — I  am  so 
made. 

"  We  part,  and  I  leave  you ;  but  I  shall  be 
like  Dante,  I  suppose,  and  as  the  years  pass,  in- 
stead of  weakening  my  love  they  will  only  refine 
it  and  purify  it.  You  will  be  to  me  a  guardian 
angel,  a  patron  saint — your  nacne  shall  always 
mingle  with  my  prayers.  Is  it  impious  to  name 
your  name  in  prayer?  I  turn  away  from  you 
because  I  would  rather  sufter  than  do  wrong. 
May  I  not  pray  for  my  darling  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Thorn- 
ton, wearily.  "Your  power  over  me  is  fear- 
ful. Lama,  I  woidd  do  any  thing  for  your  sake. 
You  talk  about  your  memories;  it  is  not  for 
me  to  speak  about  mine.     Whether  you  idealize 


C<HID  AND  CREKri'i 


1»7 


SHi;    WAS   WEEPING.       UESPARD   FOLDED   HER   IK   HIS   ARMS. 


me  or  not,  after  all,  you  must  know  what  I  really 
am." 

"  Would  you  be  glad  never  to  see  me  again?" 

The  hand  which  Despp.rd  held  trembled. 

"  If  you  would  be  liappier,"  said  she. 

"  Would  you  be  glad  if  I  could  conquer  this 
love  of  mine,  and  meet  you  again  as  coolly  as  a 
common  friend  ?" 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  Lama,"  she  replied. 
"  I  would  suffer  myself  to  make  you  happy." 

She  was  weeping.  Despard  folded  her  in  his 
arms. 

"T.his  once,"  said  he,  "the  only  time.  Little 
Playmate,  in  this  life." 

She  wept  upon  his  breast. 

"TtXeiraTov  aoiraanov  SUfiiv,"  said  Despard, 
murmuring  in  a  low  voice  the  opening  of  the 
song  of  the  dead,  so  well  known,  so  often  sung, 
BO  fondly  remembered — the  song  which  bids  fare- 
well to  the  dead  when  the  friends  bestow  the  "last 
kiss." 

He  bent  down  his  head.  Her  head  fell.  His 
lips  touched  her  forehead. 

She  felt  the  beating  of  his  heart ;  she  felt  his 
frame  tremble  from  head  to  foot ;  she  heard  his 
deep-drawn  breathing,  every  breath  a  sigh. 


"  It  is  our  last  farewell,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  of 
agony. 

Then  he  tore  himself  away,  and,  a  few  minutes 
later,  was  riding  from  the  village. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

CONCLUSION. 

A  MONTH  passed.  Despard  gave  no  sign.  A 
short  note  which  he  wrote  to  Brandon  announced 
his  arrival  at  London,  and  informed  him  that  im- 
portant affairs  required  his  depaitiire  abroad. 

The  cottage  was  but  a  small  place,  and  Bran- 
don determined  to  have  Langhetti  conveyed  to 
the  Hall.  An  ambulance  was  obtained  from  Ex- 
eter, and  on  this  Langhetti  and  Edith  were  taken 
away. 

On  arriving  at  Brandon  Hall  Beatrice  found 
her  diary  in  its  place  of  concealment,  the  mem- 
ory of  old  sorrows  which  could  never  be  forgot- 
ten. But  those  old  sorrows  were  passing  away 
now,  in  the  presence  of  her  new  joy. 

And  yet  that  joy  was  darkened  by  the  clond 
of  a  new  sorrow.     Langhetti  was  dying.     Hi* 


1»8 


COKD  AND  CREESE. 


frail  .form  became  more  nnd  more  attenuated 
every  day,  his  eyes  more  lustrous,  liis  face  more 
spiritual.  Down  every  step  of  that  way  which 
led  to  the  grave  Edith  went  with  him,  seeming 
in  her  own  face  and  form  to  promise  a  speedier 
advent  in  that  spirit-world  where  she  longed  to 
arrive.  IJeaidc  these  ^^eatrice  watched,  and  Mrs. 
Thornton  added  her  tender  care. 

Day  by  day  Langhetti  grew  worse.  At  last  one 
day  he  called  for  his  violin.  He  had  caused  it  to 
be  sent  for  on  a  previous  occasion,  but  had  never 
used  it.  His  love  for  music  was  satisfied  by  the 
Bongs  of  Beatrice.  Now  he  wished  to  exert 
his  own  skill  with  the  last  remnants  of  his 
strength. 

Langhetti  was  propped  up  by  pillows,  so  that 
he  might  hold  the  instrument.  Near  him  Edith 
reclined  on  a  sofa.  Her  large,  lustrous  eyes  were 
fixed  on  him.  Her  breathing,  which  came  and 
trent  rapidly,  showed  her  utter  weakness  and 
prostration. 

Langhetti  drew  his  bow  across  the  strings. 

It  was  a  strange,  sweet  sound,  weak,  but  sweet 
beyond  all  words-^a  long,  faint,  lingering  tone, 
which  rose  and  died  and  rose  again,  bearing 
away  the  souls  of  those  who  heard  it  into  a 
realm  of  enchantment  and  delight. 

That  tone  gave  strength  to  Langhetti.     It  was 


as  though  some  unseen  power  had  been  invoked 
and  had  come  to  his  aid.  The  tones  came  forth 
more  strongly,  on  firmer  pinions,  flying  from  the 
strings  and  towering  through  the  air. 

The  (strength  of  these  tones  seemed  to  emanate 
from  some  unseen  power ;  so  also  did  their  mean- 
ing. It  was  a  meaning  beyond  what  might  be  in- 
telligible to  those  who  listened — a  meaning  be- 
yond mortal  thought. 

Yet  Langhetti  understood  it,  and  so  did  Edith. 
Her  eyes  grew  brighter,  a  flush  started  to  her 
wan  cheeks,  her  breathing  grew  more  rapid. 

The  music  went  on.  More  subtle,  more  pene- 
trating, more  thrilling  in  its  mysterious  meaning, 
it  rose  and  swelled  through  the  air,  like  the  song 
of  some  .unseen  ones,  w  ho  were  waiting  for  new- 
comers to  the  Invisible  land. 

Suddenly  Beatrice  gave  a  piercing  cry.  She 
rushed  to  Edith's  sofa.  Edith  lay  back,  her  mar- 
ble face  motionless,  her  white  lips  apart,  her 
eyes  looking  upward.  But  the  lips  breathed  no 
more,  and  in  the  eyes  there  no  longer  beamed 
the  light  of  life.' 

At  the  cry  of  Beatrice  the  violin  fell  from 
Langhetti's  hand,  and  he  sank  back.  His  face 
was  turned  toward  Edith.  He  saw  her  and  knew 
it  all. 

He  said  not  a  word,  but  lay  with  his  face  turned 


LANGHETTI   DREW    HIS     BOW    ACROSS    THE    STRIXiiS. 


CORD  AND  CREESE. 


199 


toward  her.  Tliey  wished  to  carry  her  away, 
but  he  gently  reproved  them. 

"Wait!"  he  murmured.  "In  a  short  time 
you  will  carry  away  another  also.     Wait." 

They  waited. 

An  hour  before  midnight  all  was  over.  They 
had  passed  —  those  pure  spirits,  from  a  world 
which  was  uncongenial  to  u  fairer  w  I'ld  and  a 
purer  clime. 

They  were  buried  side  by  side  in  the  Brandon 
vaults.  Frank  then  returned  to  London.  Mrs. 
Thornton  went  back  to  Ilolby.  The  new  rector 
was  surprised  at  the  request  of  the  lady  of  Thorn- 
ton Grange  to  be  allowed  to  become  organist  in 
Trinity  Church.  She  offered  to  pension  off  the 
old  man  who  now  presided  there.  Her  request 
was  gladly  acceded  to.  Her  zeal  was  remarka- 
ble. Every  day  she  Alsited  the  church  to  prac- 
tice at  the  organ.  This  became  the  purpose  of 
her  life.     Yet  of  all  the  pieces  two  were  per- 


formed most  frequently  in  her  daily  practice, 
the  one  being  the  Agnus  Dei;  the  other,  the 
riXivrdiov  dawaoftov  of  St.  Joha  Damascene. 
Peace !     Peace !     Peate ! 

Was  that  cry  of  hers  unavailing  ?  Of  Despard 
nothing  was  known  for  some  time.  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton once  mentioned  to  his.  wife  that  the  Kev. 
C^ourtenay  Despard  had  joined  the  Eleventh  Regi- 
ment, and  had  gone  to  South  Africa.  He  men- 
tioned this  because  he  had  seen  a  paragrap'i 
stating  that  a  Captain  Despard  had  been  klMad 
in  the  Kaffir  war,  and  wondnred  whether  ii  could 
by  any  possibility  be  their  old  friend  or  not. 

At  Brandon  Hall,  the  one  who  had  been  so 
long  a  prisoner  and  a  slave  soon  became  mistress. 

The  gloom  which  had  rested  over  the  house 
was  dispelled,  and  Brando.i  and  his  wife  were 
soon  able  to  look  back,  even  to  the  darkest  period 
of  their  lives,  without  fear  of  marring  their  perfect 
happiness. 


THE  END. 


